


A price to pay

by WoodsWitch



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anathema has visions, Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Swap, Demon Summoning, Established Relationship, Flaming Sword, Gabriel is terrible, Heaven, Hell, Hell Trauma, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Loss of Powers, M/M, Magic, Metaphysical Sex, Michael is worse, Moving In Together, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Canon, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Shapeshifting, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Trauma, bickering/flirting, bookstore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:28:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 73,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23354683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WoodsWitch/pseuds/WoodsWitch
Summary: Five months after the Apocawhoops, Aziraphale gets a visit from his former colleagues. The angels have received instructions from Higher Up not to harm Aziraphale, or interfere with the life he has chosen on earth. However, his miracle privileges have been revoked. This might not be too much of a problem, except that hell has NOT given up on punishing Crowley, and using demonic miracles would attract their attention. They have just begun to adjust to a non-magical existence when Crowley vanishes. Is human magic be the key to finding him, and restoring the angel's powers?AKA: Crowley and Aziraphale sort out some key relationship details in between protecting each other from their former co-workers, with the help of one new friend and several old ones. AKA: John Constantine exorcises some metaphorical demons along with some real ones.IMPORTANT NOTE: This gets darker than my previous works, though still much closer to the Good Omens tone than to Hellblazer. Trigger warnings relating to physical and psychological torture for chapter 3. It gets better again after that.LESS IMPORTANT NOTE: Story takes place immediately after 'Synchronicity', so some bits of this might not make sense if you haven't read that
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 38





	1. A small price

It was nearly ten thirty in the morning by the time the February sun was high enough for light to filter all the way from the cupola windows of Aziraphale's bookshop to the back room. As it did, it illuminated a tangle of limbs and wings that gradually resolved themselves into an angel and demon wedged into a sofa that had clearly not been designed to fit two adult-sized man-shaped beings in that manner. Aziraphale's grey eyes blinked open, and he groaned slightly.

"Yeah, I know. I think we forgot to sober up last night," Crowley replied, sounding both groggy and slightly muffled.

The angel glanced down, and noticed that the way he was leaning on the demon's shoulder was squashing his face halfway into one of the cushions.

"Unngh. Sorry." Aziraphale managed to extricate himself from the tangle and sit up.

Crowley winced as he tried to work out the kinks in his neck and wings. "Angel, you really ought to get an actual bedroom."

"You know I don't really go in for sleep," Aziraphale replied. He reached for his shirt, which was folded neatly and stacked with his waistcoat and jacket on a chair.

"Tell that to my leg," the demon groused, shaking out the limb in question and feeling the twinges as blood made its way back into his foot. The black shirt he had had to manifest the previous evening to replace the one lying in shreds on the other side of the room was draped over a lampshade, and his dark glasses were sitting inside an empty wine glass.

Aziraphale shot him a look as he did up his buttons. "Ingrate. If you don't like it, you can sleep on the floor next time."

Crowley grinned. "Yes, I suppose I should be more polite, given last night. The avenging angel thing suits you, you know. Terrifying yet strangely attractive. Though we really should find you a more suitable weapon than _this_ if you're going to make a habit of it." He held up a slightly singed paté knife.

"And I suppose preparing to face down the antichrist with some random car accessory was more sensible?" The angel huffed.

"Nope. Needs must and all that 1. I'm just saying you could probably find something more intimidating-looking in the average gardening center."

Aziraphale had been searching for his bow tie, and finally located it in a volume of Epicurus. He raised an eyebrow at the demon, who had folded in his wings and was taking advantage of the extra space to sprawl out with his head on the right arm of the sofa and his legs draped over the back. "And here I was thinking you were cross about me taking over your role as tempter."

Crowley snorted. "Please. As if you weren't _always_ better at that."

"Excuse me?"

"As far as _I'm_ concerned, anyway." He looked at the angel's still-puzzled expression. "Oh, come _on_. You've had me wrapped around that perfectly manicured finger of yours since the day we met."

"If so, that was hardly intentional."

The demon nodded. "I _know_ \- that's why it's so impressive. I don't know why it even occurred to me to go up on that wall and talk to you. Most angels would have ignored me or tried to smite me, after all. But then you started being all...all _you_ \- this adorably anxious, sarcastic, thoughtful know-it-all."

"Know-it-all?"

"You did assume I questioned your use of the word 'ineffable' in connection to the Great Plan because I didn't know what it meant. It was sorta cute. By the time the rain came and you let me stand under your wing, I was done for." He paused. "Why _did_ you talk to me, anyway?"

Aziraphale sat down in the little half-moon curve of space left on the sofa. "I don't know. At first it seemed impolite not to, I suppose. Then you started in with the questions about the apple tree incident. It was rather a relief to know you were as puzzled by what just happened as I was. And...well, it's not as if I could have talked to anyone on my side about that. Or about giving away my sword."

Crowley recalled how the other angels had treated him when they thought he was Aziraphale. The anger he'd buried threatened to rise up, but he shoved it down again and merely replied: "No, I suppose not."

"And then you showed up again, more than a thousand years later, and that sword was the first thing you asked me about." The angel smiled. "I couldn't believe you actually remembered."

"'Course I did. That's what I'm saying - I was already hooked. It's just too bad it took another several millennia for you to realize that little pout and the puppy dog eyes could get you more than miraculous dry cleaning services and an audience for 'Hamlet'. Although..." Crowley added, his yellow eyes sparkling mischievously, "...I did half fancy you kept getting yourself in trouble just so I'd show up and rescue you."

"Wh...Don't be absurd!" the angel said indignantly.

"Oh, come on. Most humans aren't any more a threat to you than they are to me. When I dropped that bomb on our heads, it was _your_ miracle that kept us from getting discorporated. _You_ sent that soldier back off to his farm in America 2with a snap of your fingers. So why did I keep finding you hanging about waiting to get shot, or guillotined, or burned at the stake?"

"I've told you, the paperwork..."

"...is worse for saving yourself with a miracle than for getting yourself killed and requesting a new body? Really?"

"Perhaps not," the angel conceded. "I suppose a lot of those times I _was_ hoping a third option might turn up."

Crowley grinned smugly. "The third option being me swooping in?"

There was a faint rattle toward the front of the shop that suggested a prospective customer was trying the front door. Aziraphale absent-mindedly waved a hand. Sending inconvenient visitors a sense of needing to be urgently somewhere else had become something of a habit.

"Possibly," he replied. "That was always...rather nice, I must say. But it could be anything, really - a distraction that let me slip away, or a chance to argue them out of a rash course of action. Using miracles like that would draw attention, and leaving a bunch of humans scared and confused was not part of _my_ job description, even if it worked quite nicely with yours."

"Mmm. If you say so, Angel."

The demon gazed fondly up at Aziraphale. Then his golden eyes narrowed as he heard the faint ' _twing_ ' that signaled some entity materializing nearby. Though he couldn't swing his legs around without kicking Aziraphale off the sofa, Crowley managed to scramble into a position that was at least slightly more defensible. As three archangels strode into the room he tensed.

"Principality Aziraphale, we come t...oh." Gabriel began formally, and then faltered, noticing the shirtless demon perched beside Aziraphale, glaring daggers at them.

Uriel raised an eyebrow at the other angels. "What did I tell you?"

"Gabriel, Michael, Uriel...what a, um, pleasant surprise," Aziraphale said, trying not to sound anxious. "To what do we owe the honor?"

He gave Crowley a look that said: _Be polite! Or get dressed at least, for heaven's sake!_

 _Not a chance_ , the demon's expression replied. Out loud, he said: "Yeah, sseriously, has every magic usser other that me forgotten that _phonesss_ exist? Or are you here to attempt to murder us again?" The hiss in his voice added: _Try it, and someone is getting my fangs in their throat._ 3

Gabriel frowned. That was something of a sore spot. He replied only to Aziraphale, as if he had not even heard the demon: "We are here to inform you that we have received orders from Higher Up not to harm you or interfere with..." He waved a hand in a gesture that encompassed the half-naked demon, the empty wine bottles, the rumpled tartan blanket on the floor, and the bookshop as a whole. "...whatever _this_ is. But seeing as you have chosen to separate yourself from heaven, we can't have you cluttering up our accounting department with your frivolous miracles."

Aziraphale nodded gravely, though his heart gave a little leap. "I suppose that is fair enough. I will certainly try to be more moderate in future..."

Gabriel snorted. "Please. As if _your_ promise would be worth anything. I'm cutting you off as of now. Have fun living like your precious humans."

He turned on his heel and strode toward the door. Uriel smirked at the dumbstruck pair and followed Gabriel, as did Michael.

Crowley recovered his composure slightly quicker than Aziraphale, and dashed after the three archangels, catching up with them at the front of the bookshop. "Hey! Is that an order from Her, or are you vindictive bastards just making assumptions about the ineffable plan again?"

Gabriel and Uriel ignored him and disappeared out the door, but Michael paused.

"A word to the wise, demon," they said under their breath, "I hear some of your former colleagues are looking for you again."

"Who?" Crowley demanded.

The archangel smiled. "No idea. Have a nice day." The bell tinkled as the shop door shut.

The demon ground his teeth furiously. "Arrgh! Those smug, self-righteous wankers!" he snarled.

"Yes, they are, rather. But don't be angry, dear - this is wonderful news!"

Crowley whirled around and blinked in confusion at Aziraphale. "It is?"

"Of course!" The angel was beaming. "Didn't you hear? I've been forgiven! And..." he took the demon's hand and blushed, "and it seems She thinks _we're_ all right too. Well...either that, or you were right, and everything we did really was part of the divine plan. Which would mean the Almighty was never angry at us in the first place. Either way, that's good, isn't it?"

"Oh yeah. Yeah, that is good news."

Crowley squeezed Aziraphale's hand, and tried to smile. As one of the Fallen, he couldn't care less what the Almighty thought of his life choices, but if having Her approval made his angel feel better and kept him safe, that was indeed all to the good. However, he had his doubts about the second bit. "What about your powers, though? It doesn't seem fair to take them away if you are supposedly back in Her good graces."

The angel shrugged. "A small price to pay, if it means we get to be together in peace. Now come on - get dressed! This calls for a celebration! What about afternoon tea at the Oscar Wilde lounge4? I'll...oh. Well, I suppose I'd better call."

Aziraphale bustled off happily to make reservations by phone. Crowley was about to snap his fingers and summon up his missing garments when he recalled Michael's...warning? taunt? threat? He sighed, and went to hunt down his shirt, jacket, shoes, and glasses in the mundane way5.

Normally, the sight of Aziraphale's delighted reaction to the delivery of a tower of sweets and savories would have brightened Crowley's day no end. Today, however, not even the rather excellent champagne or the angel's exclamations and murmurs as he sampled each delicacy could fully shake his gloomy apprehension.

"Mmm! Oh, you must try this one, my dear - the combination of lychee mousse and raspberry jam is absolutely scrumptious!" Aziraphale paused, and eyed the demon, who had only finished half his drink, and was swirling the rest around moodily. "All right. What's wrong?"

Crowley grunted. "I'm sorry, Angel. I want to be happy for you. But I can't help thinking this is some kind of a trick. Especially with what Michael said..."

Aziraphale's grey eyes narrowed, and he put down the cake. "Why? What did Michael say?"

 _Shit. Didn't mean to mention that_. "Oh. Um, nothing you need to worry about, Angel..."

" _Crowley!_ "

The demon sighed. "All right... They strongly implied that while _your_ former bosses may have forgiven you, mine definitely haven't. So until I figure out if and how they are after me, my powers are off the table too. And that leaves us both vulnerable."

"Are you sure Michael wasn't just trying to rattle you? How would they know about secret hellish plans?"

"Are you kidding? _You_ were the one that saw them waltz into hell with a pitcher of holy water for my supposed execution." The demon drummed his long fingers on the table. "They know something."

"You're being paranoid, my dear."

"Of courssse I'm being paranoid!" Crowley hissed, "This is hell we're talking about - everyone there _is_ out to get me! But it's _you_ I'm worried about. Do you think She was listening in on us? More than usual, I mean."

"What _are_ you talking about?"

"Just before those angels popped in I was remarking how you'd never actually needed me to save you because you were more than a match for most humans. And...oh look! Not anymore! That is _highly_ suspicious timing!"

Aziraphale motioned Crowley to be quiet as the waiter approached with the bill. "You're getting yourself worked up over nothing, dear boy." He snapped his fingers over the bill folder. "I...oh dear." Nothing had happened. The angel peered into his wallet. "Hmm. I think I'm a bit short."

"Never mind, Angel. This should be my treat anyway." The demon pulled out the eighty pounds and tucked them inside the folder.

"Ah. Thank you, my dear."

Crowley was still preoccupied as he walked the angel back to his bookshop. Halfway there, they encountered a homeless woman. "Spare some change for a hot meal, gents?" she said.

"Of course!" the angel replied without hesitation.

The woman gasped as he pressed a 20 pound note into her hand. "Bless you, sir!"

As they walked on, the angel noticed Crowley's scowl. "What? Surely you don't object to a bit of charity. I am still an angel, you know!"

The demon sighed. "It's not that... I hate to point this out, Angel, but you have rather expensive tastes. Keeping up your good deeds the human way is likely to get expensive too, in time or money or both."

"And?"

"Well, how many books did you sell in the past year?"

"Four." The angel replied quickly. He did a mental calculation. "Oh. Oh dear."

Crowley tipped his head in agreement. "Yeah. I mean, normally it wouldn't be a problem, I'd be happy to take over. But if hell is tracking me..."

"No, no, of course you shouldn't take any chances," the angel hurriedly agreed.

The two walked on for a while, lost in thought. "Do I _really_ have to sell more books, do you think?" Aziraphale said plaintively.

"For a bit, maybe, until we get things sorted out. Just enough so there's more money coming in than going out." Crowley glanced unhappily at the angel's crestfallen expression. "I only say it because you're the one who technically already has a job." Trying to lighten the mood, he added: "Of course, I suppose you _could_ see if the Soho Theatre would pay for your magic act. Or there's that Intimate Treasures place next door. I bet they'd give good money for a carefully edited recording of the sounds you make when you eat."

Aziraphale glared at him. "And are _you_ going to be getting a job, then?"

The demon looked pensive. "Maybe. Hmm. I did have some contacts in the music industry a few decades back."

"Well, that's good!"

"I think they're mostly dead now, though."

"Oh. Any other leads?"

"A few, but..." the demon grimaced.

"But what?"

Crowley sighed. "I don't think you'd like it if I told you. Most aren't exactly legal."

"I _see_."

"I'll keep thinking about it. It'll have to be something flexible, though. One of us needs time to look into who's after me and how to get your powers back. And that should probably the one who still has occult defenses."

They walked the final block in silence. Finally, Aziraphale said: "Fine. But you're going to have to help me if I'm supposed to make the shop...commercial." He shuddered slightly.

The demon shrugged. "OK, but you're the book expert. I don't know what I'd have to add."

"Well, encouraging people to buy things is basically temptation, isn't it?"

"Hmm, fair point. I did actually do a bit in that area in the 1950's6. I suppose I could consult." Crowley paused just in front of the door to the shop. "For starters, you might have to do something about this sign."

_I open the shop most weekdays 9:30 or perhaps 10 am. While occasionally I open the shop as early as 8, I have been known not to open until 1, except on Tuesday. I tend to close about 5:30, or earlier if something needs tending to. However, I might occasionally keep the shop open until 8 or 9 at night. You never know when you might need some light reading. On days that I am not in the shop will remain closed. On weekends I will open the shop during normal hours, unless I am elsewhere. Bank holidays will be treated in the usual fashion, with early closing on Wednesdays or sometimes Fridays. (For Sundays, see Tuesdays)._

_A.Z. Fell, Bookseller_

"What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing - if you want to confuse the hell out of prospective customers. Reminds me of the work I did on VCR instruction manuals. However..."

"Oh, very well," the angel huffed, "I'll re-write it."

They stepped inside, and the demon surveyed the interior of the bookstore with a critical eye. "What you _could_ do is pick out the stuff you don't mind selling and put it right up front here." He gestured to the shelves in front of the windows and the small table near the door. "Maybe call it the 'sale' section - everyone loves to think they're getting a bargain. Then you can hide the stuff you don't want to sell at the back, where fewer customers will even look."

"That's assuming there _are_ some I want to sell."

"You can't be equally attached to _all_ of them. I mean, what about this?" Crowley picked up a fat little book entitled 'Beeton's Book of Household Management' and flipped through. "It's almost two hundred years out of date. And...urggh. For beef tongue, there a suggestion that you should serve it whole on a platter, surrounded by the brains, with a sprig of parsley!"

"Yes, well, I wouldn't try to cook out of it, but it is historically quite important," Aziraphale argued, "And...I knew Isabella Beeton. Remarkable woman. Besides writing that ridiculously thorough book, she essentially took over the running of her husband's publishing company. Even did the translations. If she hadn't died at twenty-nine, who knows what she might have accomplished."

As the angel took back the book and stroked its leather cover gently, it dawned on Crowley that Aziraphale didn't just love his books for their content. A book was the closest a human could come to earthly immortality - even better than a painting, since books could be copied without losing their connection to their creator. A first edition was the closest of all, though, a physical connection to the age in which the author lived and breathed. Of course, _technically_ all the authors still existed too, but...had the angel ever checked to find out where his friends had ended up? Crowley had never been able to bring himself to ask about his, though he couldn't help finding out about some of the famous ones. When hell got what they considered to be a good catch, they often threw a party, complete with terrible dancing. Or at least wouldn't shut up about it for half a year.

"Yeah, sure, Beeton stays," Crowley said vaguely.

Aziraphale put the book down, and smiled. "Oh, remind me to tell you later - Gabriel once used that book as a prop in quite a funny way."

"Mmm." _There have to be some of these that aren't important._ "Hey, what about these? The 'William goes to whatsitsville' and suchlike?" He saw the expression on the angel's face. "OK, what's the problem now? Apart from C.S. Lewis, children's lit isn't really your thing, is it?"

"No, but Adam left them when he rebuilt the shop - along with the rest of the world. They're a gift, sort of. And it would be rude to sell a gift."

Crowley sighed elaborately. "Let's see, shall we?" He pulled out his phone and dialed Tadfield 666.

"Crowley, you can't just..."

The demon made a closed-mouth gesture with his free hand. "Hello, Mrs. Young?" he said. His voice was unusually high, and had taken on an American accent. "It's Anathema Device. Yes, fine, thanks. Is Adam home from school yet? Thanks.7"

He waited a moment, then in his normal voice said: "Hey, kid, what's up? Yeah? Cool. Listen...you know how when you put everything back to normal some stuff got changed? Well, it did. Aziraphale ended up with a bunch of kid's books he didn't have before. We were wondering if it was OK to sell them or not. Uh huh. Would you mind repeating that?"

The demon flicked on speakerphone in time for the angel to hear Adam's voice say: "...said: Why wouldn't he sell them? It's a bookshop."

"Right, that's what I said. OK, thanks kid. Hmm? Oh yeah, absolutely we'll be there. Sounds brilliant. Bye."

Crowley gave the angel an 'I told you so' look. Aziraphale rolled his eyes. "Fine. We'll put those on the 'sell' list." He paused. "What did you just agree to?"

The demon grinned. "It appears our nephew8 has taken over the end-of-term play and has turned it into a fictionalized version of the Apocawhoops."

"Oh, Lord."

"I _know_. I can't wait to see how many cowboys and dinosaurs he added."

Despite himself, the angel laughed. "Yes, that sounds about right. Still...I suppose we should get back to the task at hand."

It was a painful undertaking. After an hour, they had only located another four books the angel would easily agree to part with.

Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose. The whole undertaking was giving him a headache. _Why am I torturing us both with this?_ _I should have just kept quiet and robbed a bank or something._ Then a thought struck him. "Hey, didn't you say you had a storage room somewhere?"

"Up the stairs, yes. Why?"

"Well, anything you've shoved up there has to be less meaningful to you than the stuff you keep close to hand. Maybe we should have a look?"

The angel brightened. "Excellent idea, dear boy."

"Right. Lead the way, then."

The store-room over the shop was crammed haphazardly with book boxes covered in dust and spiderwebs. On the plus side, even the angel had to admit that any books that had gone unmissed and unread long enough for their boxes to get in that state were probably ones he could stand to part with. So Aziraphale and Crowley began the task of dusting off the boxes9 and carting them down to the front of the store. The confusing opening hours sign had been replaced by one that read: "Temporarily closed for renovations. Re-opening Wednesday at 10 am."

To Aziraphale's annoyance, the demon kept getting distracted. First it was peeping into the room across the landing from the store-room.

"Wait, this place has a bathroom?"

"Of course it has a bathroom."

Crowley waved his hands. "Yeah, well, obviously, with the eating and drinking and such there'd have to be _something_. But I assumed it would be super basic. You've got a claw-foot tub in here! And fluffy towels and bath salts! Next to a mouse-infested store-room!"

"All right, so I happened to get a taste for bathing back in the first century10. Can you get back over here and help me carry these blasted boxes? This was _your_ idea, you know."

Then Crowley kept drifting off to tap on his phone and grumble under his breath, occasionally popping up to ask things like: "How much is the rent on this place?"

"Actually, I own it. Can you take this stuff out to the dumpster like I asked, please?"

The demon brightened. "You _do_? Oh, that's very good." And then he wandered off, forgetting the sack of trash once again.

"Crowley, would you _please_ go bring me the boxes that are up against the store-room wall?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, sure." The demon tucked away his phone and went to go fetch the boxes. As he brought down the fifth box, he commented: "Hey, Angel, did you know that room has windows? They were hidden behind the boxes, but you can see them now."

"I suppose it does; I'd forgotten. Does it matter?"

"Nah, I guess not. Just seems a bit too good for a store-room, really. Have you figured out how you want to arrange these things? It's getting a bit hard to move down here."

"I was waiting for _you_ to move the 'keep' items to the back room, like you said you would. I'm still sorting these, but there's no place to put them."

"Oh, right. Sorry, Angel."

The demon did clear off half the front tables. But once half an hour had gone by and Crowley failed to re-emerge from the back room, an irritated Aziraphale went looking for him. He found the demon sprawled on the sofa, once again tapping at his phone. 

"Crowley!"

"Hmm?"

"Do I have to do everything around here?"

"Sorry, Angel. I was just looking up what it would cost to rent my flat."

Well, that wasn't the response the angel was expecting. Aziraphale's brow furrowed. "Don't you know?"

"For some reason, I've never gotten a bill." The demon grinned. "I can't imagine why."

Aziraphale gave an exasperated sigh. "So why does it matter?"

"Because it appears that if I sublet it, it would be worth at least seventeen hundred pounds a month."

The angel's eyebrows shot up. "Oh."

"That'd cover quite a few dinners at the Ritz, eh?"

"Yes indeed. But what about if your landlord remembers you haven't been paying in the first place?"

Crowley grunted. It was rather irritating to keep being reminded how much of their pleasant lifestyle on earth relied on magic. "Well, if _that's_ the case, I'd still have to give it up or sublet it to break even. So might as well do the sublet now."

"But my dear, where would you live?"

"I was hoping that would be obvious, Angel." Crowley waved his arms at the shelves around them.

Aziraphale blinked. " _Here?_ "

The demon looked crushed, though he quickly tried to cover it up with a sneer. "Well excuse me for assuming you'd want to have me around more. What, do you think I'd scare off the customers?"

"No, no, obviously not, dear," Aziraphale hastened to correct himself, "You just caught me off guard. I had assumed we'd discuss something of that sort eventually. But...well, that wasn't exactly the most romantic way of proposing the arrangement, was it? And just the other day you were complaining about that sofa..."

Crowley grunted. "Yes, well, we're being rushed into a number of changes at the moment, Angel. And if there's a romantic way of saying 'can I move into _your_ place?' I'd like to hear it. But as far as furniture goes, I suspect that once we've got that spare room cleared out there'd be more than enough room for my bedroom set."

Aziraphale nodded slowly, and peered out toward the rest of the shop. "Hmm. And if we moved over that display shelf, there should be a nice place in the window for your plants."

Crowley smiled. "So that's a yes, then?"

Aziraphale knelt down and took his hand. "Of course, dearest." He leaned in and kissed the demon sweetly, then gave him a twinkly-eyed smile. "You are a bringer of chaos and utterly impossible. But my life would have been incredibly boring without that influence, and I suppose I always hoped one day you'd come to stay."

"Hmm. 'Bringer of chaos' - I like that," Crowley said musingly. He kissed the angel back...and the re-organization was put off by another half an hour.

1\. "Needs must when the devil drives" being the full idiom, appropriately enough - originally, "He needs must go who the devil drives" Back

2\. At the time, Aziraphale hadn't been sure _where_ the young man had gone. The incident had turned up in the paper a week or so later. The army had considered court martialling him for desertion, except that no one could explain how he had crossed the Atlantic in less than an hour without a plane, and the whole thing fizzled out except for the UFO conspiracy theories. Back

3\. It was a hollow threat - an Archangel could probably discorporate a demon of Crowley's rank with a touch...which is why unarmed combat had not been part of hell's battle plan for Armageddon. But that didn't mean Crowley wouldn't have made the attempt if it came to it. Back

4\. Though the name honoring its famous former patron was recent, Aziraphale and Crowley had visited this establishment many times (separately or together) since it opened in 1865, due to it's convenient location on the border between their respective neighborhoods.Back

5\. The accounting offices of heaven and hell automatically got receipts for the type location of miracles performed in their name. However, the name of the entity performing them was, through some mysterious oversight in bureaucratic procedure, not automatically appended. Any non-magical temptations or good works didn't get automatically recorded at all - except in heaven's excruciatingly detailed Earth Observation Files, which were a nightmare to use if you didn't know what you were looking for. That was why, for a thousand years, Aziraphale and Crowley had been able to swap jobs with one another when needed without getting noticed: they just had to lay claim the right set of activities. However, hell would almost certainly have guessed who was performing regular unreported demonic miracles in London. Back

6\. He'd been particularly proud of "More doctors smoke Camels" and "Pepsi Cola refreshes without filling" - two phrases that don't _actually_ say what a casual reader might _assume_ they say about the healthfulness of the product.Back

7\. Adam's parents were aware of his visits to the resident of Jasmine cottage, and were secretly pleased to have such a sensible young lady helping to look after their wayward son, even if she did have some unconventional habits. And they'd recently met Aziraphale when Anathema had invited them all over for tea - a very proper, old-fashioned gentleman, Mrs. Young had commented. Crowley might have been the former antichrist's favorite out of the three; they had a lot in common, after all. But given that the demon looked like what the Youngs might have drawn if asked to illustrate a dictionary definition for 'bad influence', his visits had never been mentioned. Back

8\. The label could be considered technically accurate, since Adam was the son of Satan, and Satan used to be an angel, and all angels are, in some sense, siblings. Though Crowley and Aziraphale deliberately don't think about it that way because...eww. Back

9\. Three boxes and as many sneezing fits in, they had to break off the project temporarily to go buy a dustbuster and some other cleaning supplies. Doing things the mortal way requires a great deal more equipment. Back

10\. Though the angel was rather relieved when bathing came to be regarded as a private activity rather than a public one. Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally declaring one's love does not magically - or should I say miraculously? - solve all communication problems. Think that'll come into play later? ;)
> 
> I like reading old cookbooks, and picked of a facsimile of the first edition of Beeton's some years ago. Many of the Victorian recipes would either not suit modern tastes or would be difficult to translate for modern kitchen equipment. Nevertheless, I felt a certain kinship with the author, who started out the book with the statement "As with the commander of an army, or the leader of any enterprise, so it is with the mistress of a home", and include biological or historical notes for different animals and vegetables, quotes from famous books, and an 18 page index. It sold 60,000 copies on its first printing. I was quite amused to see it turn up in the show as Gabriel's "pornography" purchase, and figured it deserved another cameo.


	2. The traitor's gate

The upper room was really quite cozy and pleasant once it had been cleaned (the mice and spiders firmly ushered out1) and properly furnished. The movers had, with some difficulty due to the narrow stairs, maneuvered in Crowley's bedroom set and a pair of black bookcases. They'd also helped bring up a brocaded loveseat and an inlaid coffee table from downstairs. A wardrobe that looked like it could contain secret countries - actually holding the clothing Aziraphale had collected over the past century or two that he still considered worth wearing - had been moved from whatever hidden corner it had previously occupied2. On the lower level, the window display had been tweaked to accommodate the plants, and Crowley's throne now occupied a corner of the office with a small desk for his laptop. Both were placed - though Aziraphale hadn't noticed this yet - so that he could watch the angel at work without seeming to do so. One of the black bookcase shelves held Crowley's small and changeable collection, including his 'Big Book of Astronomy' and several volumes on computer languages3. The rest were filled with Aziraphale's greatest treasures, the ones that had ended up on the 'not even if hell freezes over' pile during the Great Book Sorting. The Mona Lisa sketch hung over the ornate loveseat, and the black duvet with red piping had been brightened with the addition of a light-colored tartan blanket draped across the end of the bed.

Angel and demon surveyed the results.

"Well, what do you think, my dear?" Aziraphale asked, looping an arm around Crowley's waist.

"It is utterly incongruous and an impossible mishmash." The demon squeezed the angel's shoulder. "It's perfect."

Aziraphale beamed at him. "Wait, I have something for you. A...a housewarming present, I suppose." He bustled over to the wardrobe and rummaged around in the bottom. Eventually he pulled out a gift-wrapped package, and handed it over.

Crowley tore open the top of the package and pulled out a pair of satiny black pajamas. "Hmm, very nice. I...wait, what's this?" There was a second pair underneath: flannel, in a large Burberry check. "Umm..."

"Don't worry, those aren't for you. You see," the angel blushed lightly, "I know you like to sleep, and you're always trying to get me to join you. So I thought we might as well be as comfortable as possible and then I might be able to manage it more often."

The demon arched an eyebrow. "Hmm. So the present is that you are going to tempt yourself to do something I like? Interesting4. Well, in case that doesn't work out, I got something for you too."

He pulled a small package out of the nightstand drawer. Aziraphale opened it to reveal a tiny LED lamp.

"It's one of those that clips on the back cover of your book," the demon explained. "That way, even if you can't sleep, you can read in the dark."

"Oh...Thank you, my dear. That's very thoughtful." Aziraphale smiled shyly. "It has been rather a long day. I suppose we could try putting these to use?"

"Love to."

The angel felt Crowley's dark energy brush up against his own incorporeal self. The delicious tingling sensation caused him to make a noise somewhere between a gasp and a sigh.

The demon grinned. "Eventually," he added.

~~~

The bookshop re-opened the next morning. The sign in the window now proclaimed:

_Standard hours: Mon-Thurs 9:30-12 & 1-5:30, Fri 9:30-12, Sun 1:30-5:00. Closed Saturdays, or for maintenance/emergencies._

The attractive new window displays had attracted some attention in the neighborhood. Aziraphale was surprised to find that he didn't really mind interacting with customers if they were looking at volumes he'd already decided he was willing to part with. Many of the books in the store room had been there not because they were bad, but because they were later editions of a book the angel already had, or because they didn't fit his particular interests. It was an unexpected pleasure to introduce these books to humans who didn't know they needed them.

Crowley returned to the shop at 5:30, flipping the sign over to 'closed' as he entered. "How did it go? I thought I saw that purple-haired goth girl carrying a _book_. And _smiling_."

Aziraphale beamed. "Yes, indeed. Do you know she'd never read 'Frankenstein'? I told her all about Mary Shelley, and she seemed very interested. Then there was a nice fellow looking for something for his young man. I gave him that cheaper edition of Shakespeare sonnets, and pointed out the most appropriate ones5. And I was able to settle an argument between a mother and daughter by pointing out that '101 things a boy can do' was a bit of an archaic title but the activities were not particularly gendered these days. So they ended up buying that one as well."

"Well done, Angel! No, really - you nearly got to last year's total in one day. At this rate we'll have to get some more stock in by the end of the month."

"I suppose so. What about you? What have you been up to all day?"

Crowley sank into the back room sofa. "Oh, you know. This and that. Had to finalize a few things with the sublease and such."

"No sign of trouble from...?" Aziraphale pointed significantly at the floor.

"Not yet. I'm keeping my eyes open, though."

"Good. That is...I know I said I didn't want you getting paranoid. But it doesn't hurt to be careful."

The next week passed in a similar fashion, with Aziraphale selling a few books a day and getting increasingly comfortable with the idea, and Crowley disappearing during business hours on mostly unspecified errands. Aziraphale could guess at the nature of some of them by their results. On two occasions the demon had brought back things for the shop: a box of the little reading lights with a display rack, and a carton of old books he claimed he'd found by a dumpster.

"Thank you, my dear, but you really don't have to do that," he'd said.

The demon waved it off. "Nonsense, Angel. Call it an investment."

On Friday afternoon they went to the old temple of Mithras6, and reminisced about the city's early years, when they had known it as Londinium. The museum include fragments of Roman writing tablets - the oldest writing from anywhere in the country.

As they stood by the display case, Aziraphale noticed Crowley chuckling under his breath. "What?"

"I can see your palms twitching, Angel. Feeling slightly covetous, are we?"

"I...alright, maybe a little. Though I shouldn't, of course."

"Because it is un-angelic?"

"Er, well, that too. I meant because I already have better samples of Roman writing at home."

"So you're saying you are attempting - and failing - to be temperate about your covetousness?" the demon asked slyly.

"I suppose I am, really." It was a lot easier to admit things like that these days.

It wasn't until the next Friday, when they were strolling toward the National Gallery7, that Aziraphale realized they had been walking an awful lot lately by Crowley standards. And they'd taken the tube to the Mithraeum.

"My dear, where's your car? You didn't..." He didn't finish the sentence, but his look plainly said: _Please tell me you didn't sell it. Especially not in some misguided attempt to help ME._

"No, no, I didn't sell her." Crowley sighed. "But I can't have her parked out front and protected by miracles, can I? I'm trying not to draw attention right now. She's in a garage in Brixton. Sold a few things I didn't need to cover the rental fee. And the movers, of course."

"What things?"

The demon shrugged. "Nothing important. Don't worry about it, Angel."

~~~

One of Crowley's not-exactly-legal human contacts was a black market art dealer. The woman had examined the items the demon had brought in with interest. "Hmm. Black figure Greek wine vessel. Fourth century BC, I'd guess?"

"Fifth. And it's called a _pelike_."

The dealer nodded. Her mysterious visitor was always well informed on such matters. "Of course. Unusually good preservation. Depicting Achilles and Patroclus, if I'm not mistaken. Yes, I'm sure I can find a buyer. Now THIS," she said, turning to the statue of two winged figures. "This is quite interesting. Neo-classical style, probably 18th or 19th century, though that's not as much my area. Do you know any further information about it?"

"I was told it depicted good and evil wrestling, with evil triumphing." A shame to get rid of it, really - Crowley would have loved to have placed it right in the rotunda of the bookshop just to see how the angel would react. But there wasn't really room for such a piece. And it was a bit redundant now, of course.

The art dealer tipped her head, surveying the statue. "Mmm. If you say so." She couldn't help adding: "A bit of a _theme_ to your collection, isn't there?"

The demon grimaced. "Just shut up and give me the money, all right?"

Besides the clandestine art sale, Crowley had other things keeping him busy that he hadn't mentioned to Aziraphale. Most significantly, this had involved scouting around the neighborhood daily for any whiff of demonic activity, as well as lurking furtively in areas he knew to be favored locations for his former colleagues during their visits to earth. So far he hadn't found anything.

 _Maybe the angel's right,_ he told himself. _Maybe Michael was just trying to mess with you, and it's working._

 _Of course it's working,_ another thought replied. _You don't believe all this is just_ done _, do you? One side or the other is up to something._

~~~

One evening about two weeks after the bookshop re-opening, Crowley was at his computer, attempting to hack into a department store's credit card records8. As he puzzled over a particularly tricky bit of code, from the back of the bookshop he heard an explosion. The demon rocketed to his feet and dashed toward the source of the sound. He could hear Aziraphale moaning - "Oh no. Oh dear." - from inside the kitchenette, so at least he knew the angel was alive. Crowley burst through the door to find the entire room and Aziraphale covered in a mysterious chunky brown substance. It smelled like stew. Crowley frowned. "What happened?!"

"Well, I was _attempting_ to make boef bourguignon," Aziraphale explained testily, "There's no proper stove in here, just this little two-burner thing. So I picked up a pressure cooker, but the blasted thing blew up. Just _look_ at what it did to my jacket, and poor Julia."

Crowley noticed the gravy-covered copy of 'Mastering the Art of French Cooking'. "Hmm. I suppose I could take that and your clothes somewhere else and miracle them clean."

Aziraphale looked up sharply. "What? No!"

"Eh, it should be all right if I don't hang about." A thought struck him. "Might even be able to lure out anything that's been looking for me! If I do the miracle, zip off, and then double back..."

"Absolutely not!" the angel said firmly. "I will not have you drawing hell's attention to yourself over such a frivolous thing. There's a perfectly good dry cleaner's down the road, and I know a thing or two about restoring books the human way."

The demon shrugged. "Fine. Suit yourself." He took a closer look at the pot. "Angel, you do know the humans finally managed to fix the flaws I put in these things, right? Where did you get this antique nightmare? For that matter, when did you take up cooking?" Aziraphale had always liked to _eat_ , of course, but as far as Crowley had been aware he usually left anything more complicated than toasting a baguette or assembling a sandwich to human experts.

"I got it second-hand from the Whitechapel market, along with the ingredients," Aziraphale said, scraping an assortment of carrots and mushrooms off the walls, "And...well, I thought I might as well give cooking a try. You know, so we can economize without depriving ourselves."

Crowley let the "we" go. They both knew that, although Crowley himself barely ate, he considered watching Aziraphale eat to be one of the higher pleasures in life. "Hmm. An excellent idea overall. But perhaps you could start simpler, with something that won't blow up or burn down the shop if it goes wrong. A salad, or maybe an omelet? Or just do half the volume of stew in a normal pot?"

Aziraphale sighed. "Yes, perhaps you're right."

Crowley picked a piece of beef out of the angel's hair, and grinned. "In the mean time, shall I fetch a mop or a fire hose?"

~~~

The next Friday morning, Aziraphale was checking the contents of the front shelves, and noticed Crowley grumbling and grimacing over his computer in the corner.

"What are you doing, dear?" the angel inquired at last.

"Trying to figure out if I can convert bitcoin to cash without a bank account. It should be possible - half the point is to avoid banks."

"What's a bitcoin?"

Crowley wrinkled his nose, trying to figure out how to explain this to someone who typed with his index fingers and still didn't own a cell phone. "It's a...a virtual currency. I've been offered a fee for...certain services. But you can't spend it just anywhere, so..."

Aziraphale frowned. "Are these services you mentioned legal? Because if we can get re-stocked here, I'm sure you don't have to..."

"Yeah, yeah. Strictly white hat. Well, for the moment, anyway. And not _literally_ , of course - I always looked bloody awful in white."

"What _are_ you talking about, dear?"

"You know, like in westerns, where..." The demon shook his head. Aziraphale had never been keen on that genre. "Never mind. The point is: Don't worry."

Aziraphale folded his arms. "You keep saying that, but you're jumping and snapping and grumbling over every little thing. It isn't reassuring."

"Well, maybe I am still _concerned_ that something is up with our former bosses and I don't know what it is. But _this_..." Crowley waved his hands over the computer. "This is nothing. You know I get bored if I don't have a project."

Something binged on Crowley's phone, and he seized it, and the distraction. "Ah! You mentioned re-stocking the 'sell' shelves?"

"Yes... Crowley, are you trying to change the subject?"

He absolutely was. "Look! I set it up to alert us to estate sales in the London area. There's one tomorrow afternoon in Chiswick. Fancy a visit?"

"I was planning on going to an auction..." the angel said, doubtful but intrigued.

"Oh, an auction's no good!" the demon insisted. "Bunch of other bibliophiles driving up the prices? No, no, estate sales are the place to find hidden treasures, trust me. We could make a day of it, if you like. Stop by Kew Gardens in the morning? It's been ages."

"Yes, because _you_ kept threatening the exhibits."

"Did you see how spindly those palms were? They needed a good talking to. Come _on_ , it'll be fun. What do you say?"

It _had_ been fun, even though Aziraphale had had to stop Crowley from hissing at some under-performing ferns in the Palm House9. The late owner of the Chiswick house had quite an extensive book collection even if it did lean heavily toward mysteries and thrillers.

"Now. What would you say _this_ beauty is worth?" Crowley pulled a book off the shelf.

Aziraphale examined it. It was 'Fer de Lance', by Rex Stout, featuring the orchid-breeding armchair detective Nero Wolfe. The cover wasn't real leather, but it was a good imitation, stamped with a gilt design featuring the eponymous snake and the hero's favorite flowers. "Oh, £35, at least."

"Hmm. Says '£6 each, this shelf'." Crowley plucked the book out of the angel's hands and stuck it in their basket.

"Shouldn't we tell them?" Aziraphale whispered.

"What? No!" the demon hissed.

"But..."

Crowley hastily scribbled something on a piece of paper and passed it over.

Aziraphale's brow furrowed. "F?"

"Your report card. You fail capitalism."

The angel looked slightly crestfallen. "Oh. Right."

Crowley recalled his own involvement in the Tulip Mania of 1637 and the invention of credit cards. And those cigarette and soda ads, of course. "Eh, probably a good thing, morally speaking. Just slightly inconvenient at the moment. Come on, let's see what else they've got."

They filled up their basket with volumes of Ian Fleming and Agatha Christie, an early edition of the Maltese Falcon, plus a few more modern works, including 'The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo' and 'The Spy Who Came in From the Cold'. All in all, Aziraphale reflected, as he tucked the books into their new shelves at home, a very successful outing. The angel might have been a bit less pleased with their acquisitions if he knew the idea they had kindled, or rather re-kindled, in Crowley's head.

~~~

A few days later, Crowley noticed that instead of picking up a book after supper10, Aziraphale was writing a letter with a very concentrated expression.

"What's all that about, Angel?"

Aziraphale set down his pen. "I'm writing to the mayor and our local assembly about the rent situation."

Crowley's brow furrowed. "Thought you said you owned this place."

"I do. But that's rare around here, the residents owning their buildings. The more I've had to do things the human way, the more I've been noticing...shifts. In the neighborhood. 'Gentrification' I believe is the word they are using now."

Soho had gone through quite a few changes over the centuries. While it had been planned as an upper-class estate, by the time Aziraphale had started considering it as the location for his bookshop it had become an immigrant neighborhood, populated by Hugeonot refugees from France's religious wars11. By the 19th century Greeks and Italians had joined the mix. It already had a thriving theatre scene, but was at high risk of disease outbreaks due to the dense clusters of tenements. The cholera epidemic of 1854 was particularly unpleasant. Aziraphale had quickly maxed out his allowed healing miracles, but fortunately there were no rules that prevented him from helping that nice Dr. Snow map out the cases12. Soon restaurants started popping up to serve theatre-goers, with further encouragement by the resident angel. Then by the mid-20th century the neighborhood had become, rather to Aziraphale's chagrin, a full-on red-light district. He had sometimes wondered if the increasingly frequent visits by a certain demon had anything to do with this13. Not that he had any intention of moving. He had a particular soft spot for those who, given the choice between hiding their true self or being cast out for being broken or _made wrong_ , had sauntered vaguely but deliberately downwards. Such folk often wound up on his doorstep, alongside those who had slipped, or been found out, or had otherwise fallen through the cracks. All of them could certainly use the occasional miracle, not to mention other, less magical assistance14.

"Hmm. It has been getting considerably less grubby around here over the past few decades," the demon conceded.

The angel nodded. "And while a bit of that is welcome, things have been getting rather out of hand with the prices. The Soho housing association already helps long-term residents find affordable housing, but what about lower-income newcomers? Or the long-term businesses? There were some very pushy fellows nosing around this place the other day, you know."

Crowley's eyes narrowed. "They weren't doing that old 'nice place you've got; shame if anything happened to it' bit, were they?" That had happened quite a bit in the '60s, but back then the angel could just see to it that they forgot to come back.

Aziraphale waved a hand. "No, no, nothing as thuggish as that, but they were annoyingly persistent. Said they wanted to turn this into a co-working space, whatever that is! I told them quite firmly that I was not interested in selling. But Mr. Granger next door is getting quite anxious about the rent increases, and if that pair buy his building he'll definitely be forced out."

Crowley grinned. "Next door? You're worried about the porn shop?"

"It's quite the local institution, really. And I think I've had a good influence on it."

The demon's mind boggled. "What, er, sort of influence, exactly?"

"Well, I pointed them to some good local sources for leatherwork. More importantly, though, they've shifted more toward print, drawings, and animation."

Crowley considered this. _Why?...Ah._ "Let me guess. 'No humans were harmed in the making of this smut?'"

"Precisely. Much easier to be sure of that. The photo and video stuff can be a bit of an American chicken sandwich, at times15. And it's much easier to distinguish the artist's fantasy from reality. I introduced them toward a few classics: that Japanese print 'the dream of the fisherman's wife', for instance, and of course 'The Pearl'16. I'm told they were popular enough they now have a whole vintage section."

"How the _heaven_ do _you_ know about either of those?" Crowley sputtered. This was the sort of art and literature he'd often teased the angel with, but not these specific works.

Aziraphale shrugged. "Well, you were sleep-sulking for most of that century. I got bored; ran through my usual reading material faster than usual and didn't have your colorful insights into what humans were up to in such realms. So I did a bit of research. Most interesting." The angel sounded amusingly professorial.

"I thought you were learning the gavotte!"

"That too. As I said...You left me with a lot of time to kill, cholera epidemics aside, and it was a busy century."

"Huh." Well, this was a change from blushing over Donatello's 'David', but then again the angel had become rather more broad-minded about art over the centuries. And did perhaps explain why the angel had never commented on a certain statue while it was still in Crowley's apartment. _Just as well I didn't take the trouble to lug it over here; that's clearly a prank that would have backfired._ Before he could think about the matter further, his phone binged. "Another estate sale this Friday afternoon," he announced.

Aziraphale put down his pen again. "Oh, dear. And I'd already agreed to go to a residents' meeting about this whole rent thing. They're bringing in a speaker to talk about community land trusts. I looked it up - quite a promising concept17."

"Not to worry, Angel. I can go to the sale."

"Oh, would you, dear? That would be _very_ helpful."

"Course. Not a problem."

The sale was out near Hampstead Heath. Crowley's approached the house normally, walking to it from the tube station and selecting a box full of books. Then, instead of retracing his steps, he lugged the box up a trail in the park that led to a high grassy knoll. There was quite a good view of the city from here. And the surrounding trees had a good view of the knoll. He set down the box, checked to that no humans were watching, and snapped his fingers. The box vanished. Crowley slipped into his snake form and slithered up a nearby tree, concealing himself in the foliage.

He had waited about fifteen minutes, and was beginning to wonder if anything was going to happen, when the two demons emerged from the earth. He vaguely recognized them, though he didn't know their names. They were fairly low ranking, and clearly not very accustomed to lurking around on earth18. They also looked extremely nervous.

 _As well they should be_ , Crowley thought. _Even if I can't spit holy water, as they probably suspect_.

The two demons sniffed around for a bit, trying to get a fix on him. They came up to the border of the wood, but it apparently never occurred to them to look _up_. It was...odd. If he was still an important enough target for hell to be bothered with, why did they send _these_ incompetent wankers to collect him? He was tempted to sneak up and scare the piss - and hopefully the truth - out of them. But...maybe that was the idea. What if these two were just bait? Well, he wouldn't rise to it. Not yet, anyway.

Instead, he followed them from a distance as they made their way down the hill. He wanted to see if they could tell where the books had been sent. Crowley hadn't sent them _home_ , of course. They were in the janitor's closet of a pub. Crowley, now back in humanoid form, grinned to himself as he lurked behind a delivery van watching the other two demons. The Holly Bush was a rather elegant establishment, as pubs went; he'd love to see how the patrons and employees reacted to the look and smell of these novice human-impersonators. But it was not to be - the two demons seemed to lose the trail several blocks away and gave up, sinking into the asphalt of an alleyway and leaving behind a hint of sulfur. Crowley sauntered into the pub, had a drink, and left through the back door with his books.

Later that evening, Crowley was draped over the sofa, watching Aziraphale happily price and catalog his new finds and tuck them away on the shelves. It would have been a very relaxing and satisfying thing, ordinarily. But confirming that his miracles _were_ being tracked had not really answered the key questions: _By who?_ and _For what purpose?_ Was it an official thing? If so, why hadn't Lord Beelzebub put someone more experienced on the job? Hastur, unofficially, out for revenge? Why not handle it himself, then? And then there was Michael, with their cryptic warnings...

As these thoughts niggled at the back of his mind, Crowley's phone rang. His eyes lit up, as he recognized the caller. Maybe more information was at hand after all.

"Hey, mate, what's up?" Crowley said casually. "Yes, I'm quite aware of that. No, me neither - not on that end anyway. But there is someone else I think I need to have a chat with."

Aziraphale wandered into the back room to pick up some more books for shelving. "Thank you for picking these up. You have an excellent eye, dear boy," he remarked.

"No problem, angel," Crowley said brightly.

As Aziraphale turned away, he lowered his voice and said cryptically: "Well, umm...ah, you know that church in Cornhill, the one Wren redesigned? Its namesake." The demon groaned theatrically at the caller's reply. "Just bloody google it, then. Yeah, that's the one. Mmmhmm. Right, well, let me know if you find anything. Thanks, mate."

~~~

A week later, Aziraphale and Crowley were at Tower Hill tube station, waiting for the train that would take them out to Poplar Union, where there was to be a free film showing. As they waited, the angel noticed the demon go very still.

"What's wrong?"

Crowley sniffed the air. "Someone's been using demonic magic down here."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. But I can't tell... Look, you stay right here on the platform. I'm going to have a quick look around."

"Crowley..."

"Don't argue, Angel. Just stay with the crowd, and keep your eyes open. I'll be right back."

Crowley was in the stairwell, concentrating on stretching out his occult senses to try to pinpoint where and when the demonic miracle had been performed when his physical ears detected a disturbance down on the platform. He opened his eyes and over the heads of the crowd saw two people down on the train tracks: a disheveled, bearded man and a plump figure in a camel coat trying to pull the former to his feet. The demon cursed under his breath and dashed back down the stairs.

"Out of my way!" he growled, elbowing aside onlookers. "Either help or move, damn you!"

By the time he got close enough to see what was going on again, Aziraphale had managed to get the drunk on his feet and up to the edge of the platform.

"That's it, old chap. Just...ungh...throw your weight up there as much as you can. Can someone grab his arms, please?"

Two of the other passengers followed this instruction, and heaved the bearded man up onto the platform.

"Thank you. Now... Oh dear."

The next twenty seconds were rather hectic. There were a few screams and shouts as others on the platform noticed the rumble of the approaching train, and the light rapidly growing larger in the tunnel. A few reached out to try and help the Good Samaritan onto the platform, but just before they could a skinny black-clad figure leaped onto the tracks and grabbed hold of him. Then the train rushed through.

Angel and demon rematerialized in an alleyway near Bank Station. Crowley felt lightheaded. It took a lot more energy to travel that way carrying someone who couldn't dematerialize on their own. "Fucking hell, Angel, are you _trying_ to get discorporated?"

"Of course not, but what else was I supposed to do?"

"No time to argue about it. We need to move, now." Though he was still breathing heavily, the demon strode out into the crowds at the intersection, moving about as fast as it was possible to do without breaking into a run. The angel trotted after him.

"No one else was moving to help that poor man!" Aziraphale protested, as they ducked inside the Royal Exchange and mingled with the shoppers. "And you know quite well I can't...influence people in this state."

"Bystander effect," Crowley muttered.

"What?"

"It's called the bystander effect. Get too many people in a crowd and everyone assumes someone else will handle the bad thing. And in this case they were right - you did."

The angel looked annoyed. "So you're saying I should have let him get run over?"

"N...y...n...Well, look, you wouldn't be _you_ if you didn't try to help, but just be careful!"

They stepped out of the shopping center onto Threadneedle Street and turned north up Bartholomew Lane. Throgmorton. Angel Court. Copthall Avenue. London Wall. Eventually they reached Postman's Park.

Crowley looked over his shoulder suspiciously. "Right. That should be far enough."

"So you aren't actually angry at me, then?"

"Of course not, Angel. Just maybe try not to end up on _that_." He sank down on a bench and waved an arm at a wall of plaques that ran along the edge of the park under a shingled roof19.

Aziraphale joined him. "I'll try not to. Provided you promise the same."

Crowley snorted. "Please."

"You just jumped in front of a train to rescue me," the angel reminded him.

"Well, you're a special case. And I knew I could miracle us away. I'm not doing that for any squishy humans."

"You risked extinction for all of them."

"OK, granted," the demon conceded grumpily. "But for entirely selfish motives, I'll have you know. I'd have been unutterably bored without the nonsense they get up to. And I didn't want our neutral ground get blown up either, did I?" A thought seemed to cross Crowley's mind. He began to snicker.

"What's so funny?"

"Just...just picturing their faces. They were sure we were about to get squashed by that train. And...and then they steel themselves to look over the edge... And there's nothing! Not a spot!" The demon gasped. "Oh man - That's one of the best pranks I've pulled in ages. And I didn't even mean to!"

~~~

Momentary humor aside, the incident with the train had left Crowley shaken, angry, and more determined than ever to find out what plots were moving against them. Aziraphale insisted that the man had just tripped and fallen onto the tracks; that no one had touched him, and there was no sign of any miraculous intervention. But Crowley found that hard to believe, given the demonic signature in the station that had momentarily drawn him away from the angel's side just before the "accident". He spent much of the next week prowling around the city in widening rings. And, indeed, he did pick up whiffs of demonic energy here and there. But no one was making a move, and he hadn't caught sight of another demon in nearly a month.

Crowley was slouched in a corner of the bookshop, brooding on the matter, when his phone rang. As he noticed the name and answered the call, he glanced over at the angel, who was telling a customer about a collection of Emily Dickinson poems in that charmingly enthusiastic manner he slipped into when discussing any of his favorite volumes.

"About time you called. What have you got?" Crowley said, keeping his voice low. "Oh, brilliant!" He jotted something down, and then whatever his caller had said made him roll his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, of course. Just so you know, though - I don't do soul contracts. Never did, and I'm not about to start now. Because I think I know how your devious little mind works, mate. Even if it did work - which it wouldn't - what the heaven would I do with a bunch of souls cluttering up the place? Oh, I'm sure you'll come up with something equally annoying. Mmmhm. Ciao."

Later that evening, when Aziraphale had gone off to his neighborhood meeting, Crowley slipped into the kitchen and dialed the number he had been given. As soon as someone answered, he said: "We need to talk." There was a brief pause. "You know perfectly well who it isss. Never mind how I got this number. I want to know what your game is. Thisss is far beyond 'not funny anymore'." He grit his teeth at the answer. "Fine. Play innocent. I still want to know what you think you know. No, _not_ there. Better. I'll be there."

The meeting was set for 9:30 the next morning near the Tower Bridge Cafe. Crowley planned to head out early; trying to act as if nothing at all significant was happening whenever Aziraphale was in view was getting to be a bit of a strain. He didn't want the angel fussing or trying to intervene where it might be dangerous. With any luck, he would return with the information he needed to get this whole mess sorted.

On the other hand, this meeting _could_ still go badly wrong. If it did...

Crowley thought for a moment. Then he selected a book from the crate of new acquisitions he had picked up. He placed it on Aziraphale's desk, and slid something underneath it. The angel didn't see him do it, being occupied rearranging the books on the front sale tables.

Crowley pecked him on the cheek and sauntered toward the door. "Off to see to a few things, Angel. See you tonight."

Aziraphale smiled warmly. "All right, dear. See you later, then."

The demon had been glancing around warily under the cover of his sunglasses ever since he stepped out of the Tower Hill tube station. But he seemed to be the first to arrive. There was no sign of any uninvited occult activity either. So he ordered a coffee and lounged against the railing that stood between the crowds of tourists - not too thick this time of day - and the Thames. The old Tower itself loomed on his left.

A strange building, Crowley thought. He'd seen it built, or rather the start of its being built and re-built, back when he and Aziraphale were still wearing armor and beginning to realize that running about thwarting each other was rather a waste of time. The Londoners had hated it, as they hated the Norman invaders who built it. But, like those Normans, it had become woven in to the city and the nation until it was impossible to separate. It had been a royal residence, home of the Royal Mint, a prison, an armory, a treasury, a public record office, even a _zoo_ 20.

"Reflecting on a bloody history, demon?" said a voice just behind his left ear.

Crowley just managed not to flinch, but instead swiveled slowly to bring the severe, androgynous, high-cheekboned face of the angel into view. "Michael. No, actually, I was thinking about change, and how humans are so good at it. This place _had_ a bloody history; now it's..."

"Useless?" the Archangel suggested.

 _Interesting word association_ , Crowley thought. It was unclear whether Michael preferred the Tower as it had been, or merely assumed a demon would. "I was going to say _fun_. A place for selfies with suits of armor, and ghost stories, and learning about what the bad old days used to be like. Your lot - and my former colleagues - could take a few lessons in change from them. Which reminds me... Someone isn't letting the recent changes go. I want to know who, and what they're planning."

Michael gave him an insufferably smug look. "Now why would you assume that I know anything about what your _former colleagues_ are up to? I'm an angel." They began strolling casually down the path toward the bridge, and Crowley had to move to keep up.

"You were the one to deliver the holy water that was meant to execute me. You clearly have contacts."

"Oh, that was a special occasion."

"Hmm. Bit of a menial task for an Archangel, isn't it? Strange that you'd get your hands dirty like that."

Michael raised their eyebrows. "Dirty with water?" They didn't stop walking, but they changed pace, causing the demon to circle so as not to overshoot.

"You know what I mean," Crowley growled. "And then, the last time we met, you were the one dropping hints that you knew something."

The Archangel shrugged. "I heard a rumor. But it wasn't very specific."

Michael sped up again. The progress of the grey-suited angel and the red-haired demon down the path was beginning to resemble an odd sort of dance, and it was getting on Crowley's nerves. But he made an effort to stay calm and rational...as opposed to grabbing Michael by that ridiculous lacy cravat and shaking them until they told the truth, which is what he really felt like doing.

"Look, you might not like Aziraphale, but he's still one of yours. Gabriel's message heavily implied as much. Whatever this is, it is threatening him too. He could have been hit by a train - while doing his Good Deeds, mind you - and I have reason to suspect a demon was involved. And if he gets discorporated now, he presumably winds back Up There with you, which you've made abundantly clear you don't want."

Michael glanced up at the Tower. "Do you know what this door is called?" they said.

"What does the name of the sodding door have to do with anything?" the frustrated demon snarled.

"It's called the Traitor's Gate." The Archangel snapped their fingers. "Appropriate, don't you think?"

Something flared at the demon's feet, and he glanced down. He was standing in a ring of glowing sigils. "Oh, bollocks," he managed to growl, before the ground dropped out from under him. In an echo of that fateful day some 7,000 years earlier, Crowley smelled burning feathers and saw Michael's smirking face recede away above him as he fell.

1\. A hiss from Crowley's snake form was all the hint they needed.Back

2\. Perhaps surprisingly, given his greater tendency to follow fashion, Crowley didn't own many clothes; everything he owned fit easily into the drawers of his nightstand. This was because he tended to manifest whatever he needed from pure firmament...although that would of course have to change if he had to keep avoiding miracles. Back

3\. Crowley claimed not to read books, but that wasn't strictly true. He didn't typically read for amusement, but he did read with purpose. That included things like cell phone tower manuals and surveyor's maps, of course, but the many volumes he'd casually handed over 'just in case you're interested, Angel' had also all received at least a quick skim. And of course he'd picked up a fair amount of literary knowledge from centuries of Aziraphale reading things at him.Back

4\. It was rather funny, he considered, that one of the greatest challenges of his demonic life had involved trying to get an angel to sleep with him in the entirely literal sense of the term.Back

5\. Many of the sonnets are addressed to a 'fair youth' including, probably, the famous 'shall I compare thee to a summer's day'. The most obvious is number 20 (http://shakespeare.mit.edu/Poetry/sonnets.html). Seriously, try reading these in order. It is a soap-opera-level emotional roller coaster, including a love triangle - a real triangle, with all 3 edges - between the poet, a fair youth, and a dark lady.Back

6\. Uncovered in a building excavation.Back

7\. Luckily for their new attempts at economizing, many of Aziraphale and Crowley's favorite activities in London - apart from eating and drinking - happened to be free. Besides visits to St. James and Hyde parks, this included quite a range of museums.Back

8\. At least in this instance at their request, in order to find the flaws in their security protocols.Back

9\. Though he had been unexpectedly touched to catch the demon giving a respectful nod to a gigantic cycad that was labeled as the world's oldest potted plant (collected from South Africa in 1774) and whispering "That's it. Never say die, eh?" to the cuttings from the world's last café marron that had recently been persuaded to self-pollinate. Back

10\. Which had been a quite passable spaghetti Bolognese - one of the angel's latest culinary efforts.Back

11\. This was by no means a downside. It meant that property was cheap, there were plenty of opportunities for Doing Good, and the food options were excellent. Provided the cooks could get decent ingredients, which they somehow always did. Back

12\. The map led Snow, a pioneer of epidemiology, to a contaminated water pump. The handle was removed, and the epidemic stopped. Back

13\. Crowley denied this, though privately he sometimes wondered if a pair of magical beings not fully admitting their feelings toward one another might have inadvertently created a cloud of low-grade horniness in the area. He did claim credit for inspiring the proliferation of nightclubs, jazz venues, and beat cafes, starting with the Gargoyle club in 1925. It's founder, the socialite David Tennant* described it as: "A chic nightclub for dancing but also an avant-garde place where people can express themselves freely in whatever manner they please." Crowley's touch could be seen in the Alhambra-inspired interior and the rooftop garden terrace. *- Yes, really. Back

14\. In 1862, Aziraphale had helped found the House of St. Barnabas in an old Georgian mansion. Originally supporting families whose breadwinner had been sent to a workhouse, it evolved over the years as a waystation for immigrants and émigrés, a women's hostel and, currently, a non-profit club that offers job training for the homeless. In 1940 a bomb fell directly on the house, but there were, miraculously, no casualties. Back

15\. The type of sandwich that looks fairly innocent, if not particularly nutritious. And maybe it is (though vegetarians might beg to differ). Or maybe you find out that the chicken in question was bred to grow so fast its bones cracked, was slaughtered by prisoners making $1 an hour, was dipped in bleach to kill the E. coli and salmonella, and was sold to you by a raging homophobe. Or it could be anywhere in between - the point is, it is hard to tell without doing your research.Back

16\. The former is a fore-runner of tentacle porn from 1814. Yes, seriously. The latter is a magazine of Victorian erotica. Think the purple prose of a modern historical romance novel but with at least 3 distinct fetishes in every story, one of which is usually some form of spanking or switching.Back

17\. The idea is that the land (and sometimes the buildings on it) are owned by the community, not individuals, and rules are set up to ensure affordability. There are currently hundreds of CLTs in the UK (http://www.communitylandtrusts.org.uk/), but it is unclear at present if government financial support will be renewed.Back

18\. One of them had apparently decided that a black trenchcoat long enough to drag on the ground, loudly checked trousers, and a top hat would be nicely inconspicuous. The other looked like they had run across a cow with diarrhea and concluded that the result would make a good styling gel.Back

19\. The Memorial to Heroic Self-Sacrifice honors ordinary people who died to save others and who might otherwise have been forgotten, including Walter Peart and Harry Dean, two trainworkers in 1898 who were burnt saving the train from an accident; Elizabeth Boxall, age 17, who in 1888 died trying to save a child from a runaway horse; and a distillery manager and two workmen who repeatedly went down a well in 1901 to rescue their comrades and were poisoned by gas.Back

20\. That last bit had started small: back in the 13th century Henry III had kept a few wild beasts there he'd been given as gifts, including a polar bear that used to go fishing in the Thames. By the 18th century the menagerie was open to any member of the public who paid a 1.5 pence, or brought a cat or dog to feed to the inhabitants (This likely had something to do with strays being a nuisance in the pre-spay/neuter era, but yikes). Crowley had gotten a bit of malicious pleasure out of startling some of the visitors by impersonating an escaped python. If the targets of this were mostly people who had brought a particularly cute snack to the lions, well, that was just coincidence.Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter started wandering a bit into Aziraphale's economic opinions, as will one or two future chapters. Not something I had initially planned on, but once I started thinking about how he would handle life without miracles I couldn't help it. I imagine said views to be...complicated, and not necessarily super coherent. Aziraphale's personal tastes are clearly extremely bourgeois; That's how he got himself in trouble during the French Revolution. At the same time, he has a generous spirit and it is impossible to imagine him being OK with people suffering unnecessary privations (see flaming sword giveaway). So I picture his attitude as being somewhere along the lines of: "everyone deserves nice things"...with a bit of plausibly deniable nudging of things in that direction.
> 
> Be warned: the next chapter has quite a change in tone!


	3. A hope in hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *TW: If you are sensitive to depictions of psychological and physical torture, including allusions to (though no "on screen" depiction of) sexual violence, you might want to skip this chapter. There is some dark humor, action, and acts of comfort to balance that stuff out, but this is a depiction of hell in its more actively unpleasant form.

Crowley tumbled through the void, wing-tips smoldering, for what felt like most of a day. At last, something came into view, spinning across his vision: A dirty linoleum floor, lit by flickering fluorescent lights. He smacked into it hard enough to leave a dent. "Arrggh...fuck," he groaned.

"Pick him up, Beroul," someone said. Crowley recognized that deadpan, slightly buzzy tone. _Beelzebub. Great_. A meaty hand closed hoisted him up by the collar and set him on his feet. The demon it belonged to seemed to have been built from the remains of a medical waste dumpster. He was all cancerous lumps and bulges, and smelled of rot and sulfur.

Crowley cleared his throat, and tried to sound casual. "Oh, hey guys. What's up Down Below?"

Beelzebub's flies swarmed around zir head. "Well, seeing azz how I've mozztly set right everything that was upzzet up by the lack of Apocalypzze, we've had a bit more time to conzzider what to do about you."

"Ah, well, if you'd like to have a chat I think I might have an opening in my schedule next week..."

"I don't," Beelzebub said shortly. "That'zz why I'm delegating your cazze. But I'm sure it'zz in good hands."

The entity that stepped into Crowley's field of view looked like a fairly attractive female human until you noticed the fangs, and that her long nails were literally talons. She wore a gothic corseted dress and had a live bat jauntily perched on her dark curls. Crowley recognized her as one of the smarter and more ambitious young demons. _Shit._ He forced a grin. "Rosa, how's it going? Haven't seen you in ages. Nice hat."

"That's _Duchess_ Rosacarnis to you, Serpent," she replied smoothly.

"Ah. Um. Congratulations on the promotion."

"There was a vacancy, thanks to you," a voice croaked. _Hastur_. "And Rosa here had some interesting ideas on how to deal with you." The Duke of Hell gave an unpleasant smile. It resembled a disused churchyard, where the headstones had been left to tilt in different directions

There was a crack in the wall. Crowley eyed it carefully.

"Look, Lord Beelzebub, I thought we'd settled this," he said in his most reasonable voice, "You can't kill _me_ and, so long as you don't try to destroy the world again, I don't mess with _you_." _Yes, that's about the right size_.

"Oh, a quick extinction in holy water would be kind compared to what we have planned for you, traitor," Hastur said.

"Ah. Well, I'd love to see what you've come up with, but I'm afraid I have other plans."

Beroul was suddenly left gripping an empty jacket as Crowley shifted into snake form, dropped to the ground, and shot toward the crack in the wall. He was nearly there when something pinned his neck to the ground. Feeling the touch of metal on either side, Crowley hissed and writhed, but couldn't break free. He glanced upward. "A pitchfork, Hassstur? Really?"

The Duke smirked. "Sometimes the old ways are best, don't you think?"

~~~

The shackles on Crowley's wrists rattled as he tested them. Shape-shifter-proof, as he had suspected1, but it never hurt to check. He looked around the cell. It was an odd one - better lit than usual, with a set of iron bars dividing it in two. Crowley was in the smaller section. The chains that connected to the shackles on his wrists were just long enough to let him reach the divider. There was a similar set of chains on the far wall - though those seemed to be adjustable in conformation - but currently the area beyond the bars remained unoccupied.

Crowley leaned against the cold stone, his long hands dangling over his knees. It was odd, really. The way the welcoming party had been carrying on he'd expected to be chucked into a pool of boiling sulfur without delay. But instead they'd just bunged him in here and left. Not that he was complaining. Oh well. Might as well get some rest while it lasted. Crowley closed his eyes.

The clanging of an iron door on the other side of the room and a rough voice growling "Get a move on, you," shook him out of a doze.

"Look here, I think you're making a terrible mistake," replied a voice that was prim, precise, and horrifyingly familiar. Crowley's eyes snapped open.

The two demon guards had just finished fixing the shackles on the stoutish, silver-haired prisoner and were heading back to the door.

He rushed toward the bars and peered through. "Aziraphale?"

"Crowley? Is that you?" The angel moved forward too, but his chains were only long enough to get halfway to the bars.

 _No, no, no. This cannot be happening._ It looked like Aziraphale, though, from the threadbare waistcoat and tartan bowtie to the little nervous smile. "Angel, what are you doing here?"

"When you didn't come back, I went out looking for you. Something jumped out of an alley and grabbed me and...well, here I am."

Crowley leaned his head against the bars and groaned. "Of all the...Look, never mind. Don't worry. I'm going to figure out a way to get us out of here."

"Always the optimist. I like that about you, Crowley." Rosacarnis had materialized in his part of the cell, lounging elegantly against the door. "Hope is such a useful quality, and a rare one down here. Of course, it does have its drawbacks. Making one think he can get away with treason and just waltz off to some happily-ever-after, for instance."

Rosacarnis knocked on the outer door. The little slit window opened. "Duke Hastur, would you do us the honor of starting things off?"

The Duke of Hell materialized on the other side of the cell, along with two minor demons Crowley didn't recognize. "Oh, it would be my pleasure."

Aziraphale was attempting to put up a brave front, but Crowley saw him shy away as the sore-covered, foul-smelling demon leered at him.

"Is _this_ what you betrayed hell for?" Hastur said, looking over at Crowley. "This pudgy, comfortable excuse for an angel? I suppose there's no accounting for taste, is there?" He nodded to his minions, who roughly took hold of the angel's shoulders. "A shame, really. The soft ones always break far too quickly to be much fun."

Crowley launched himself at the bars, and growled at Hastur. "You wouldn't dare! He's not in your jurisdiction."

"Isn't he?" Rosacarnis said lazily, from the corner of his cell. " _Humans_ are. And since you two decided to side with them, I hear your angel's been cut off. Bit of a light sentence, though, don't you think? I mean, considering what heaven did to _you_ for questioning the Almighty... But don't you worry. We mean to correct that injustice."

 _Fuck._ "Seriously, guys. There's no need for this," Crowley said smoothly, trying to ignore the panic rising in his own brain. "He's already suffering. I know it's been a long time, Hastur, but you must remember what it's like, being locked out of heaven. Yeah? Well, imagine if you never had any hatred for those wankers, that you'd honestly had faith in them, and just tried to carry out your orders for 6000 years. And at the end they don't listen to you, don't show you any respect, and take away your powers. That would hurt like anything. Right, Angel?"

Aziraphale was playing along. His grey eyes had teared up, his lower lip trembled. "Yes," he whispered. "Yes, you can't know what...It's awful. I'd rather they'd cast me out properly. You still have your power, your dignity. What _am_ I, now, anyway?"

"Hmm. Very touching," Rosacarnis yawned. "What do you think, Duke Hastur? Has the poor little thing suffered enough?"

"Oh, hardly." Hastur smiled unpleasantly. "Speaking of breaking...what should I break first, do you think? Ah, yes..."

He took hold of the angel's little finger, the one with the ornate golden ring, and bent it backwards. Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut, and only whimpered slightly when it cracked. The sound was echoed by a hiss from Crowley.

"Hmm. This fat pigeon might be tougher than I thought," Hastur mused, taking hold of the next finger. The whimper when this one broke was slightly louder.

"Just leave him be, you mouldy pox-eaten bastard! He's not your enemy!" Crowley cried.

Rosacarnis tipped her head to one side. "All angels are the enemy. But I think you forgot that, didn't you?"

Hastur broke another finger, drawing another muffled cry from Aziraphale.

Crowley winced and licked his lips. "I mean..." he said carefully, "I know it's me you all hate. And you should! I'm the one who killed Ligur. I'm the one who screwed over your whole blasted plan for the Antichrist. So take it out on me. Please. Do whatever you want to me, just let Aziraphale go."

"You're right, Crowley." For a moment, hope flared up. But then Rosacarnis continued: "We certainly could do all sorts of unpleasant things to you. We could flay you with a rusty knife, or have an eagle eat out your liver every day like Prometheus, or just dump you in a pit of molten tar for a millennium or two until we think of something more creative. But you just admitted this is worse, didn't you?" She grinned, showing the full length of her fangs. "Isn't love grand?"

The demoness strolled out the door of his cell and as he gripped the bars and gritted his teeth, Crowley heard the bolt grind into place again.

Hastur broke the rest of the angel's fingers. He worked at a leisurely pace, like an artist carefully considering the placement of each brushstroke. Aziraphale still hadn't screamed, but Crowley could see the effort that took. Tears were beginning to run down the angel's face and, besides the immediate pain, Crowley knew he must be wondering if could ever hold a pen or a book properly again.

The other demon paused and considered his handiwork. "Let's see your wings," he said.

"Angel, don't!" Crowley cried.

Hastur kicked Aziraphale hard in the side of the knee. Something cracked, but the two demon henchmen kept the angel mostly on his feet. Hastur gave them a look, and when the next kick came to the angel's other knee they let him collapse to the floor. "Wings. Now."

Aziraphale shook his head, as best he could. Hastur nodded at one of his minions, who kicked the angel hard in the ribs. Aziraphale groaned and coughed.

Hastur's grimy fingers seized a handful of silver curls and yanked upward. His left hand gripped the back of the angel's shoulder like a claw. "Show me your wings, or I'll break your blessed neck," he whispered into the captive's ear, "Not enough to send you back Upstairs, mind. Just enough so you won't be moving around so much."

Slowly, the angel unfurled his wings from the pocket dimension where they were stored.

"There, now. Isn't that pretty?" Hastur stroked the white feathers of the right wing with his filthy hands. Then he took the arch of the angel's wing between them, and bent both hands forward. Crowley wasn't sure if he heard the snap of the joint or had just imagined it, but the angel's suppressed scream was real enough. The Duke of hell shifted his grip further in to the humerus - a much tougher target than a joint. But wing bones are hollow, and as the demon brought the weight of his knee to bear it cracked audibly, and Aziraphale gave an anguished cry. Crowley could do nothing but watch, his own wings beating uselessly at the bars, as Hastur reduced each perfect white wing to a mangled, bloody mass. Crowley had, over the last twenty minutes or so, gone from reasoned pleading to desperate threats to incoherent begging, but through it all, apart from the involuntary groans and cries, the angel had not said a word.

Hastur nodded to his minions, who dropped the injured angel in a heap on the floor. As the three departed, Rosacarnis stepped into Aziraphale's half of the cell. She poked the angel with the toe of her high-heeled boot. Aziraphale groaned.

"Hmm. What a mess. We'll have to do something about that or you won't last any time at all, will you?" She crouched down and lifted up the angel's head by the hair. Then she winked at Crowley, and sunk her fangs into Aziraphale's neck.

"Hey! What in the HERE is that!"

"Relax, Snakey," she said, standing back up and wiping her lips daintily. "My venom has healing powers." The angel screamed and convulsed. "Not that it might not have weird side effects on an angel," she conceded.

"Why are you doing this?" Crowley demanded. "Hastur - I get it. He's always hated me, and then I melted his friend. But _you_ , Rosacarnis? You barely know me!"

She shrugged. "You're right. In fact, if anything, I probably should be thanking you two. If Armageddon had gone to plan, then chances are I wouldn't be a duchess right now, even if we did win. But as Hastur said...you opened up a vacancy. And the Lords of Hell were ever _so eager_ to hear from anyone with ideas for how to bring down an impossible thing like you. It isn't personal."

She sashayed out of the cell, leaving Crowley slumped against the bars that separated him from the angel writhing in pain on the floor. _Not personal? It damn well is now_. Crowley ached to touch his angel, to hold him and kiss his brow and tell him everything was going to be all right. Even if it probably wasn't. In fact, things were almost certainly going to get worse. True, Aziraphale did seem to be healing; already his wings and hands were taking on a more normal shape. But Crowley understood Rosacarnis's plan now, and why it had found such favor. It had a certain cruel poetry to it: what better way to punish a demon who had dared to put love of earth and humanity and most of all a particular celestial being above loyalty to hell than to turn that love against him? Once upon a time, if he had spotted that trick coming, he would have disavowed any such feeling. But that cat was so long out of the bag by now that it had settled down in the next county and raised kittens.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale said weakly.

"I'm here, Angel," the demon croaked. The tortuous healing seemed to be complete. "How...how are you feeling?"

"Unngh. Like...I just had molten lead poured...through my veins. Now I'm just...so cold." The angel shivered, and curled into a fetal position, his once-more-intact wings wrapped around himself like a blanket.

"Oh, Angel. I'm so sorry. I wish I could reach you, I wish I could _do_ something..."

The angel sighed. "Please, just...talk to me. I'm not...not really...up for conversation. But...I'd like to hear your voice."

"Of course. Right. Let me see..."

Crowley racked his brains for something to say. The other demons were probably listening, so he'd better avoid any personal reminiscences that would give them more ammunition. Perhaps he could pull a Scheherazade and recite stories. It was probably too much to hope that their tormentors would hold off to hear the endings, but for taking the angel's mind off where they actually were it seemed the best option. And he had an excellent memory where Aziraphale's preferences were concerned. Even when he couldn't recite, he could probably paraphrase. But what to choose? _Wilde? No - terrible choice under the circumstances. Milton's out too._ _Maybe Blake?_ He took a deep breath, and began:

 _Can I see another's woe; and not be in sorrow too?  
Can I see another's grief; and not seek for kind relief?  
Can I see a falling tear; and not feel my sorrow's share?  
Can a father see his child; weep, nor be with sorrow filled?  
Can a mother sit and hear; an infant groan, and infant fear -  
No, no never can it be. Never, never can it be._ 2

"Do you remember that one, Angel?"

"I think so, dear boy," the angel said weakly. "Do go on."

"Um, yes. Let me see..." A lump formed in his throat as he remembered the rest, but he swallowed it down and continued:

_And can he who smiles on all; hear the wren with sorrows small  
Hear the small birds' grief & care; hear the woes that infants bear -  
And not sit beside the nest; pouring pity in their breast?  
And not sit the cradle near; weeping tear on infant's tear?  
And not sit both night & day; wiping all our tears away?  
O! No never can it be. Never, never can it be.  
_

_He doth give his joy to all; He became an infant small  
He became a man of woe; He doth feel the sorrow too  
Think not, thou canst sigh a sigh, and thy maker is not by  
Think not, thou canst weep a tear, and thy maker is not near  
O! he gives to us his joy; that our grief he may destroy  
Till our grief is fled and gone; He doth sit by us and moan  
_

The poetry seemed to do the trick. By the time he finished, the angel's breathing had stilled; he seemed to have fallen into an exhausted sleep.

 _Though even_ if _all that's true, a fat lot of good it does_ , the demon thought bitterly. _I'd trade divine sympathy for a decent set of lock picks right now_.

~~~

They say that the tortures of hell are eternal. But perhaps that is because time in such a place3 almost loses all meaning. Without the light of sun or moon, without clocks, the only thing that marks time is the pain and the space between pains. Or, in Crowley's case, the shift from one kind of pain to another.

The worst sort, of course, and the time he had begun to think of as "day", began when he heard the lock turn on the angel's side off the cell. Hearing it sent him into a cold sweat, as he tried unsuccessfully not to speculate about what horror he was about to see visited on his beloved. Demons were not, as a rule, a terribly creative lot. But they took turn, and each had their specialty. Hastur, as they had learned that first day, liked breaking bones or dislocating joints. He came back twice more in those first two weeks, once with a sledgehammer. Adramelech preferred fire. Not proper hellfire, though as Chancellor of the infernal realms and a general of the legions, he certainly had access to that. Since his aim was not to destroy the angel, but just to cause pain, he settled for pressing irons heated to a white glow against his flesh until it sizzled and seared, and setting light to his wings. Uphir was fond of knives. The first time they visited, they had flayed the angel's arms - not all at once, but in long, inch-wide strips. But they seemed just as pleased with their handiwork when it merely involved sliding a thin scalpel-like blade under each of Aziraphale's perfectly manicured nails.

Crowley had run through every possible reaction to all this within the first few days: Pleading, threatening, screaming, weeping, glaring, cursing, beating his hands and wings against the bars, curling into a ball. None of it made any difference. Sometimes he bit the inside of his cheek with sharp fangs, or plucked out his own feathers with a harsh tug, because the fragment of pain made him feel slightly less guilty at watching the pains his angel suffered while he remained unharmed. And he did watch. Closing his eyes was the one thing he would not do, no matter how much he wanted to. He owed Aziraphale that. If the angel looked up, he must not see Crowley's face turned away from him.

Rosacarnis was usually there, at least near the end, lounging in a corner with her fashionably bored expression, ready to administer her harsh medicine. That moment, when the angel writhed on the floor as the demoness' venom restored his form, marked the transition to "night". At night they were left alone, shivering in the not-quite-dark. During that time, Crowley would use his gift of words to try to bring some strength or comfort to his angel. He re-told and embellished Aesop's fables. He recited the least gloomy Emily Dickinson poems he could recall; 'There is no frigate like a book', and 'I could suffice for him, I knew' 4, had always made him think of Aziraphale. On two particularly difficult nights, when the angel had the worst wounds to heal and seemed unlikely to sleep, the demon paraphrased whole books: the Odyssey, and Pride and Prejudice. The choices came almost at random - whatever first floated into his mind that was neither inappropriate to their situation nor horribly depressing. This part wasn't as bad as "day" - nothing could be that bad. But it was draining. And whenever things went quiet the words circled round and round in his head: _ThisIsYourFaultThisIsYourYourFaultThisIsYourFault..._

~~~

"Poor Crowley," Rosacarnis remarked one day with mock sympathy. "Is that hope of yours fading away so quickly?"

The red-haired demon was sprawled on the floor of his cell, his golden eyes unblinkingly watching as Abraxas' toothed whip left bleeding red trails across Aziraphale's bare back. His shirt and waistcoat had been torn to shreds what seemed like ages ago, but he still wore his half-century-old trousers, which were much stained and tattered but largely intact.

When the angel screamed or cried out Crowley would whimper or twitch, but otherwise lay listless against the bars.

"That is a shame." The demoness hitched up her skirts, and bent down closer. "I would have thought you stronger than that, Crowley."

It really shouldn't have been possible to leap from that slumped position. But Crowley, even when not in snake form, was preternaturally strong and flexible. Pressing his feet against the bars, he lunged upward, long fingers outstretched, and caught Rosacarnis by the hair. She shrieked, and her bat flapped wildly. Sharp talons raked across Crowley's cheek as the demoness jerked back out of his grasp. "You! You..."

"Sssnake?" Crowley's golden eyes flashed.

Rosacarnis struggled to regain her dignified posture. "Well. Clearly I was wrong about you losing your spirit. But you will regret that, Serpent." She jerked her head at Abraxas, and both demons departed, leaving the angel still manacled and unhealed.

"What did you do?" Aziraphale muttered into the wall.

"Initiated an escape attempt," Crowley replied.

"I take it...it didn't go well."

Crowley looked at the hair pins he had seized and palmed during his struggle with Rosacarnis. He tucked them securely in his inner jacket pocket. "Oh, I wouldn't say that. Though I'm sorry, angel. I wish they'd left you so you could rest."

Aziraphale sighed. "Well, the beast only got...five or six...lashes in. Could be...worse. Can you...?"

"Of course, Angel."

_Hope is the thing with feathers;  
That perches in the soul  
And sings the tune without the words;   
And never stops at all._

_  
And sweetest in the gale is heard;  
And sore must be the storm  
That could abash the little bird;   
That kept so many warm_

_  
I've heard it in the chillest land;  
And on the strangest sea  
Yet, never, in extremity;  
It asked a crumb of me_

Crowley waited two days to put his plan into action. The first was worse than usual. Rosacarnis ushered in Ukobach, a small red-skinned demon with huge eyes and an even larger nose, along with a contraption that resembled a turnspit. He was hell's chief engineer and, as Beroul strapped the angel to the device Ukobach ranted at length about how the Apocawhoops had wasted his time. "Do you know how long it took me to build twenty thousand hellfire cannons? Eight hundred fucking years, that's how long! You'd think for something that important you could get the proper staff, but noooo."

"Mate, I'm sorry about all that," Crowley pleaded. "But you don't have to do this. I respect you, and I know you used to like me. We had some fun times, right? Remember tanning beds? Vanity with a side order of skin cancer, you called them5. And segways?"

Ukbach glared at him, and launched back into his rant. "Don't get me started on the hellfire grenades! Those were sodding difficult. And they're bloody unstable, so it's not like we could just stash those in the armory for next time. I'll have to start all over again!" Whatever almost-friendship he had felt for Crowley was clearly in the past.

The purpose of the device proved to be to dispense sizzling oil in precise quantities and locations, turning the angel and basting him with it until his skin crackled. The effect was particularly bad on his already-injured back.But this time the damage was sufficient that Rosacarnis had to heal him. As the angel recovered, Crowley told him his plan.

"See, if I can just get these off," he whispered, as he attempted to pick the lock of his manacles with one of the hair pins, "I can shift into snake form, cross over to your side between the bars, change back, and undo yours. The window on your door has bars on it instead of a sliding thingy like mine. I think my smallest snake form can make it through. Then all I have to do is open the door."

"All you have...to do to get us out of...the cell," Aziraphale pointed out, wincing as the skin on his back regrew. "Then what?"

"Then we improvise. The fact that we look a bit rough is probably a good thing; we'll blend in with the other lost souls. Just shamble and moan a bit. I'll try to steer us toward one of the gates."

"Crowley...are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Nope." He smiled grimly, as one of the locks clicked open. "But I figure it's worth a shot, don't you?"

The next day's visitor was Eligor, a demon so traditional that he still dressed as a knight. It came as little surprise that his torment of choice was the rack. Like Ukbach, he had a litany of complaints about the abortive apocalypse, which he preferred to hiss into Aziraphale's ear as the angel's joints cracked and popped. Crowley watched silently, arms wrapped around himself - a posture that conveyed his very real distress while also hiding the loosened manacles. Eventually Eligor left the room, and Rosacarnis delivered her healing bite. Crowley waited, listening, until there were no footsteps outside the cell, and he saw the angel experimentally flexing his repaired shoulders. "Ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be, I suppose."

Crowley slipped out of the manacles and shifted into his snake form. He slithered forward into the angel's side of the cell.

Or, at least, he started to. Just as he was getting close, just as he thought he was about to be able wrap himself around his angel again - _only for a moment_ , he'd thought, before he changed back and opened the locks - he felt a stabbing pain in his tail and jerked to a stop. He glanced back. Rosacarnis had sunk her talons into his scales and was hauling on his tail with all her preternatural strength. He hissed and tried to pull forward, though clearly the game was up. The only thing he could do was to spit one of the hairpins into a crack in the floor; perhaps it would come in useful later. Beroul joined Rosacarnis, and he was hauled unceremoniously back. Beroul snapped one of the manacles around his neck. This undid the change; Crowley found himself back in human shape, the manacle now around his left wrist. Rosacarnis reattached the other and tutted at him. "Really, Crowley. Always such dramatics, with you." The demoness turned to Beroul. "Tell Philatanus it's his turn."

Philatanus was rather short and stocky, with large fangs that protruded over his lips and large pointed ears. He carried a bundle of unpleasant-looking implements under one arm, and while he heated up several of these in a small brazier he instructed his minions to re-configure the angel's chains so that he was hanging from the ceiling, his toes barely touching the ground.

"Can I, boss?" one of the minions inquired eagerly.

Philatanus shrugged, seemingly absorbed in his task. The junior demon slapped Aziraphale hard across the face. Then, taking a bit of a run-up, he kicked the angel hard between the legs. This elicited an "oof!" and a grimace, but clearly nothing like the reaction the minion had been expecting.

Philatanus's eyes narrowed. He picked a pair of iron pincers from the fire, their tips glowing yellow, and advanced on the angel. Aziraphale's trousers barely resembled a garment anymore, being stained with blood, oil, and soot, the fabric tattered and torn. It took only a few swipes of the demon's claws to reduce them to ribbons, revealing...nothing. Or, at least, not what one might expect to find. Philatanus growled and tossed his pincers aside, giving Rosacarnis a look that said: _And just what am I supposed to do with that?_

The demoness pursed her lips. "Hmm. Interesting. Is that a defense mechanism, or did he not make The Effort even for you?"

"None of your business, you filthy bitch," Crowley growled.

"Not that there aren't other options, I suppose," Rosacarnis continued, as if she hadn't heard him. "What _is_ it like to fuck an angel?"

"I wouldn't know."

"Liar." Rosacarnis leaned closer, though not so close that Crowley could make a grab for her again. "You stank of ethereal grace from head to toe when you dropped in." She sniffed. "It's a persistent scent. Almost...ground in. Now how might that have happened?"

Crowley glared at her. "I'm telling you, it's not like that."

She shrugged. "Oh, well. I only ask because there were five or six incubi who were pestering me about it. But I suppose I could let them find out for themselves."

"You tell them that if they lay a _finger_ on him I will personally feed them their own balls," Crowley snarled.

Rosacarnis chuckled. "Still with the idle threats?"

"Only idle for now. When I get out of here..."

"Yes, yes, I'm sure we'll all be shaking in our boots," she said, sounding utterly unimpressed. "You're right, though. That was a rather crass suggestion. No, I'd say taming your insolence requires something a bit more creative. You've always admired human creativity, haven't you?"

She pulled a metal object out of nowhere. The 'pear of anguish' was shaped somewhat like its namesake fruit, and had a dial at one end that made the segments of it, which were slightly spiky, open up like a flower.

"I've heard that this thing might be sort of a hoax, like the idea of chastity belts worn for years at a time," Rosacarnis commented. "The sort of thing later humans _thought_ their ancestors got up to in the Middle Ages. Still, I've always rather wondered whether it would work as advertised."

"No no no. Don't you dare..." Crowley hissed.

Rosacarnis winked at him, and tossed the device to Philatanus. "Go on, Phil. Knock yourself out."

~~~

Human inspiration seemed to be the order of the week, as Amducias and Nicor joined the rotation. Amducias, a demon with a long face and a unicorn-like horn in the middle of his forehead, was hell's musical director. His approach was simple: Install a large stereo system just out of reach of the prisoner, dial the volume to maximum, turn it on, and leave. For humans, the goal of this would be sleep deprivation. That, of course, did not technically apply here, which is probably why Amducias selected a single song to play over and over and over. From the number of repetitions, Crowley estimated they heard that song for seventy-two hours straight - potentially insanity-inducing regardless of the tune. And Aziraphale probably would have considered that amount of punk rock to be torture even if it was a varied selection of the best of the genre. But Amducias had selected "Dictator", the worst song ever released by the Clash, a track that sounds like the sound mixer passed out and pressed a bunch of random buttons with their forehead. The drum machine is oddly out of synch with the mumbled lyrics, and a voice that sounds vaguely like a news announcer drifts over the top as if two radio stations were trying to share the same frequency. After the tenth repetition even Crowley was wondering if it was possible to claw off his own ears.

Then, unexpectedly, the music switched off and they got perhaps five hours of blessed silence. That was broken by the arrival of Nicor, a water demon with long weedy green hair who normally got their kicks out of tormenting sailors. With the aid of Beroul, Nicor strapped the angel to an inclined board and wrapped a damp cloth over his face. They then brought out a pitcher of water, and began to pour. In humans, this procedure can only be continued for twenty to forty seconds, lest the prisoner actually suffocate. Those limits did not apply, here. Though Aziraphale did not technically need to breathe, his physical body found this hard to believe. After the first few minutes, Crowley could see him trying to catch his breath, and struggling against the restraints. But Nicor had a bottomless pitcher and no actual questions to ask. Despite the Serpent's pleading it went on for an hour, until Nicor declared that they were bored and their arm was tired.

That night, angel and demon lay facing each other on opposite sides of the bars, their curled-in postures echoing one another. They had wrapped their wings around themselves like cloaks. The cell was always on the cold side, and it seemed especially damp after Nicor's visitation.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale's voice still sounded breathless.

"Yes, angel?"

"Could you... No, never mind. Forget I...said anything."

"No, tell me." Seeing the angel shake his head slightly, he added. "Come on, angel. You know I'd do anything for you. My options are somewhat limited right now, but still..."

Aziraphale swallowed, and gazed at him with sad grey eyes. "I know, my dear. It just...just feels a bit silly. And an imposition."

"Really, Angel. Just ask."

"All right. Would you...would you sing to me?"

Crowley blinked. As with dancing, demons _can_ sing, but they are not known for doing it _well_. And given how his throat felt after what felt like a month of screaming, pleading, and extended storytelling, it was hard to picture how it could produce a particularly pleasing sound.

"Thought you'd've been tortured with bad music enough, Angel."

"I like your singing. Not that...I've gotten to hear more than snippets. I wish I'd gotten to hear it back before..." Aziraphale shook his head. "Sorry. No. I know you don't like talking about Before."

Before the Fall, the angel meant. Truth be told, Crowley hadn't done much singing when he was an angel. He had been a different kind of artist, then, working in star-stuff. He had gotten far more into music as a demon on earth. That didn't make this request easy, though. The difficulty he had had with the stories, of finding something that did not feel either inappropriately cheery or depressing, was compounded with that of choosing something that wouldn't sound horrendous when sung acapella in a stone box by a heartbroken demon with a sore throat and no formal musical training. Anything requiring great virtuosity and a wide vocal range was right out. No, he needed something where sounding a bit gravelly was part of the aesthetic. Blues. Punk. Folk. Ah...

Crowley had long had a soft spot for the Pogues, and had even been friendly with several members of the band. Their sound was rough around the edges on purpose, as were the themes and language of most of their songs, which frequently tipped a hat to forgotten folk: refugees, some of whom never made it to their destination; railroad navies whose work outlasted an empire; a young male prostitute in Soho; soldiers of seemingly every war 6. And yet among the bitter quips there was always sweetness or defiance, or both. Hell, this might even be what the angel had in mind; Crowley recalled once launching into a drunken rendition of 'The sickbed of Cuchulainn'7 that had left Aziraphale sputtering in scandalized amusement.

There was one tune he'd listened to over and over but had never mentioned to anyone. When it was released in 1986 he'd cringed, remembering the night when he'd gotten a bit too drunk with the band and let a bit more of his personal life spill out than he'd intended, including his growing worry that the clock was running out on earth. Fortunately, between the drink, his habit of obfuscating, and normal artistic license it had all gotten a bit garbled. There was no harm done, and he'd secretly come to love the song. He wished now he'd told Aziraphale about it in that brief and precious time when they seemed to be free. But he could sing it now, and hope the angel understood. Crowley cleared his throat. "Right. Here goes, then..."

_I've been loving you a long time  
Down all the years, down all the days  
And I've cried for all your troubles   
Smiled at your funny little ways.  
_

_We watched our friends grow up together_  
 _And we saw them as they fell_  
 _Some of them fell into heaven_  
 _Some of them fell into hell._

_I took shelter from a shower_   
_And I stepped into your arms_   
_On a rainy night in Soho_   
_The wind was whistling all its charms._

_Now the song is nearly over_   
_We may never find out what it means_   
_But there's a light I hold before me_   
_And you're the measure of my dreams, the measure of my dreams_

Crowley sang with his eyes closed, for the most part, but as he reached the chorus he risked a peek at Aziraphale's face. His expression was hard to read, but the way his eyes had gone wide, it was clear he knew this meant something. Before he could reach the next verse, though, something happened that made the demon falter. It felt like something was tugging on him from the inside, like a line attached to his soul had just jerked. "Nnggh. Ow!" His manacles heated up briefly, and the tug vanished.

"Crowley? Is everything all right?"

The demon blinked. "Yeah. I...I'm not sure what just happened there." The feeling didn't repeat itself, and after a while he lay back down.

_I'm not singing for the future_   
_I'm not dreaming of the past_   
_I'm not talking 'bout the first times_   
_I never think about the last_

_Now the song is nearly over_  
 _We may never find out what it means_  
 _Still, there's a light I hold before me_  
 _You're the measure of my dreams, the measure of my dreams_ 8

~~~

The rotation of demons continued. Crowley held his breath when Xaphan showed up. He had _invented_ hellfire, back in the day, intending to set fire to heaven itself, though they had all been cast down before that could happen. But, although he was not at all shy about ranting his frustrations about not getting to have another go at his plan, Rosacarnis and Hastur must have managed to impress on him that he was to leave no permanent damage. Xaphan settled, therefore, for using glowing coals in what looked like a dark parody of a hot stone massage.

It was a long night. The burns were deep, extending well into the muscle, and the angel wept as they healed, still in too much pain to hear anything Crowley might have said to him. So he kept vigil in silence.

Outward silence, anyway. His thoughts would not shut up.

_You are the worst kind of coward. Telling yourself it wouldn't hurt to get close, that if you just were careful and didn't say how you felt that you could have that touch of heavenly grace. As if you deserve it. As if you were anything more than a crawling beast fit only to eat dust. A broken, twisted thing that only defiles everything it touches. You should have gone ahead and flung yourself in a font of holy water when you had the chance. Did you think you could love? What kind of love does this? And did you think he could really love you? A mistake - just spillover, of that love he has for everything. But now? Do you really think he could love you after this, after seeing what a poisonous thing you are?_

It went on like that for hours. The thoughts were not entirely out of character. They sounded like the worst things he'd told himself over the centuries. And yet...there was something _other_ to them. Crowley's eyes blinked open, and he glanced up at the door. A horned figure was standing by the window, whispering.

"That'sss cheating, Belial," Crowley hissed.

Lord Belial's handsome mouth twisted into a cruel grin. "Well spotted, Serpent. I suppose we _were_ meant to let you concoct your own despair, weren't we?" He clapped his hands. "Drude?"

A demoness wearing a ragged, blood-stained dirndle slipped into Aziraphale's side of the cell. The angel had finally healed, and fallen asleep. She didn't wake him, but instead placed her hands on his temples and closed her eyes. The angel whimpered and twisted in his sleep.

Crowley glared at Belial. "What is she doing?"

"Drude's specialty is nightmares." The angel began to gasp, as if he couldn't get enough air. "Especially dreams of suffocation."

Crowley shouted and banged on the bars, but nothing would wake the angel until the demoness chose to remove her hands.

The next day it was the turn of Thamuz, ambassador of hell and master of weapons. He chose to reenact the martyrdom of Saint Sebastian, stringing up the angel from the ceiling and filling him with arrows. Thamuz was an excellent shot, ensuring that none of the arrows would accidentally dispatch his victim to heaven.

After Thamuz and Rosacarnis had departed, Crowley noticed a familiar pair of eyes peering through the window in his door. They were distinctive: a greeny-gold with a horizontal pupil like a goat's. He thought he'd seen them more than once before, but the demon they belonged to had not joined the rotation of torturers. They hadn't even jeered from outside, like so many of the others.

"Psst! Surgat!" he hissed.

The demon on the other side of the door flinched. "Yes?"

"Listen. You made these chains, didn't you?"

"Umm, yeah, but..."

"Look, no hard feelings. I know it's your job. But how about helping me get out of them, eh?"

"You know I can't do that, Crowley," the other demon sighed.

"Come on, mate..."

"NO," Surgat said firmly. Crowley saw their eyes dart side to side. He thought he heard a muttered "Wish I could," before they disappeared.

~~~

"It's spring back on earth, you know," Crowley remarked.

Aziraphale stirred slightly. "So?"

Another visit from Hastur and the cumulative effects of his captivity had left the angel in a bad state.

"Well, the cherry trees and the tulips will be blooming in the park. And the mother ducks will be teaching their ducklings how to eat breadcrumbs. And the...what are young swans called? Ah, right - cygnets. Remember when that swan got all stroppy because you tried to be friendly with its cygnets? It puffed itself up and hissed, so I hissed back at it, and it gave us the most offended look I've ever seen on a bird..."

The angel sighed. "I'm not sure I do. I mean, I know what you're referring to. I just...I can't picture it, I can't feel it. Already it feels like this is all there is, all there's going to be. Forever."

"Hey, hey, don't talk like that. Listen. Remember that super long story you insisted on reading to me a while back? The one with evil guy in the tower who wants to take over the world? Well, actually, I think there were two bad guys in towers, but whatever. There's one main one. And there are these little guys who have to go chuck some magic jewelry into a volcano to stop him?"

Aziraphale squinted at him. "Are you talking about Lord of the Rings?"

Crowley nodded. "Yeah, that's the one. Anyway, do you remember the bit where the main little guy and his friend are crossing this sort of hell-type country on the way to the volcano?"

The angel made a non-committal noise that Crowley decided to take as a yes.

"They've been through all kinds of shit. They got attacked by a giant spider and the little guy's friend thought he was dead for a bit and that he'd have to complete the quest on his own, but then it turns out he's not dead, he's getting tortured in...bless it, there are lot of towers in this story! Anyway, the friend goes to rescue him and they sneak across the scorching plains. And at some point they have basically the same conversation we just had, where the main little dude says he can't remember any of the good things his friend is trying to remind him of."

The angel sighed. "What's your point, Crowley?"

"My point _is_...they made it, didn't they? They kept going, even though at one point the second little guy had to carry the first one up the mountain. They saved the world and they made it out, back to the places where there's trees and flowers and water again."

The corner of the angel's mouth twitched. "And ducks?"

Crowley latched onto that hint of levity with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. "Yeah, and ducks, probably. Not that I remember ducks featuring particularly prominently, but a world that big has to have ducks, doesn't it?"

"I thought we already did the world-saving thing." The weary tone had returned to Aziraphale's voice.

"Yeah, we did. So saving ourselves has to be easier than that, right?"

"This isn't a story, Crowley."

"'Course it is, Angel! Some bits of it are already written down. There's multiple religions based on the story we're in!"

"And the Author isn't shy about killing off main characters. If we even are main characters. But...thanks for trying. To cheer me up, I mean."

Crowley leaned against the bars, feeling the cold iron contrast with the hot tears on his cheeks. "Any time, Angel. Any time."

~~~

Crowley had spotted Surgat watching once or twice since they had last spoken. The goat-eyed demon had been another of his almost-friends or at least not-enemies in the old days, and unlike Ukbach they didn't seem to be mad at him. The next time he spotted them, therefore, he gave tempting another try. "Hey! Surgat, old mate!"

Again, the nervous darting of eyes. "I shouldn't be talking to you."

"I know, I know," Crowley said soothingly. "And listen...I'm sorry I asked you to undo the chains. I don't want to get you in trouble, and that would be too obvious. I wasn't thinking. But listen...what if you just made sure that door was unlocked? There's no way they could be sure it was you; anyone might have forgotten to lock it."

Surgat shifted from foot to foot. "I don't know..."

"Come on, you love a good prison break, I know you do," Crowley wheedled. "You had fun with that El Chapo fellow, didn't you? What do you say?"

Surgat dithered for a few minutes. Then: "Fine. Tomorrow. But just the outer door; you'll have to work out the rest on your own."

Crowley _had_ worked out the rest. The manacles might have been magically strengthened, but the bolt holding his chains to the wall wasn't. Over the last few weeks he'd spent a part of each night jiggling it back and forth, back and forth, gradually loosening it. It was now at the point where a few good tugs should pull it free. And that was what he did, when he heard the door lock click open but no one entered. He braced his feet against the wall, and pulled against the chains with all his considerable strength. On the third tug the bolt broke free of the wall and Crowley tumbled to the floor with a clatter.

The noise roused Aziraphale from his listless doze. He flinched. "What was that?"

"Ssssh!" Crowley hissed.

He cocked an ear. No sound came from outside. Carefully, he got to his feet and cracked open the door. The corridor was empty. Of course, he'd have to sneak down it wrapped in chains like Jacob sodding Marley, but he could deal with that for now. He slipped out into the hall and around the corner to where the door to Aziraphale's cell must be. When he saw it, he blessed under his breath. He'd hoped there would be a simple sliding bolt, but no, of course not. It was a pattern lock - similar to a combination lock, but instead of a dial there were bits that slid up and down. He pressed his ear to the body of the lock and started adjusting the sliders carefully. _Click._ He grinned to himself. First rune. He fiddled with the remaining sliders some more. Once he got in, he could find the hairpin, and unlock his and Aziraphale's chains. _Click._ Aha! Almost there...

A heavy hand fell on Crowley's shoulder. Beroul, again. It should not be possible for someone that large to move that quietly! Crowley was hauled roughly to his feet, and found Rosacarnis and Hastur glaring at him.

"I'm disappointed in you, Serpent," the demoness said. "I thought you would have learned your lesson about what happens when you try to escape. It's awfully selfish of you."

"And twisting Surgat's tail to help you," Hastur added with an unpleasant smile, "Corrupting a fellow demon with your treasonous ways..."

Crowley forced down the growing fear, and grinned back, though he suspected it wasn't very convincing. "Oh, thanks, guys. Should I be expecting another commendation?"

Hastur briefly looked confused. "What?"

"Well, rebelliousness, selfishness, temptation, being a general corrupting influence...isn't that what being a demon is all about?"

It was a rhetorical question. Hell was, theoretically, all for rebellion. But not against its own hierarchy or rules.

Hastur growled in the back of his throat. "Beroul, get this traitor back in his cell."

"Yes, Duke Hastur," the lumbering demon rumbled. He seized the chains and began walking; Crowley had to follow, lest he be yanked off his feet and dragged down the hall.

Once back inside the cell, Beroul re-anchored the bolt in the stone wall with a single blow of his massive fist. On the other side of the bars, Aziraphale was trembling. Crowley could hardly bear to look at him. He had known that if he failed again the demons would take out their anger at him on the angel in harsher than usual ways.

"Why?" the angel whispered.

"I'm sorry, Angel. I had to try." How could he _not_ try? To not try everything he could to get them out would be to accept this torment, forever.

The door to the angel's cell swung open, and Duke Hastur entered.

"You two. Always trying to fly the coop." He seized the angel by the wings and twisted. Aziraphale whimpered. "When will you learn to accept your fate?"

His gloved hands jerked, and the angel screamed as something cracked. Hastur's black eyes met Crowley's. He reached into a coat pocket and removed a large blade.

Crowley gripped the bars. "Hastur, no! Don't you dare!"

The Duke of Hell brought the blade down on the angel's right wing, right where it joined his back. Once, twice, three times. Even as the angel wept and pleaded, he tossed the severed wing into a corner and started in on the left. A moment later, he was dropping the second wing contemptuously in front of Aziraphale. Then he smiled at Crowley's expression of horror and fury. He spat on the ground before stalking out of the cell, clanging the metal door shut behind him.

Aziraphale bent over the severed wing that lay across his lap, sobbing helplessly as the blood ran down his bare back. Crowley felt sick. Rosacarnis had not come in to heal the angel. But even if she had, they both knew that wings, once fully severed, could not be re-attached.

"Oh, Angel. I'm so s..."

"Don't...talk to me," the angel managed to say.

Crowley shut his mouth. His heart ached for the angel, but he knew this was a pain he couldn't talk away or fix. With his powers gone, Aziraphale's wings had been, besides his glowing aura, the last things that marked him as an angel. Crowley would give Aziraphale his own wings, ten times over, if he could. But that wasn't possible, and so what good would it do to say it? All he could do was watch, in silence, as the angel mourned. Eventually the sobs stilled, and the blood ceased to flow. But Aziraphale remained bent over, stroking the feathers of what used to be his wing. When he finally spoke, it was almost inaudible.

"I wish I'd never met you."

Quiet as they were, the words knocked the breath out of Crowley's lungs, and his heart into the pit of his stomach. He hugged his knees, and squeezed his eyes shut to stop the tears. What right did he have to cry? Those words, the thought that he would hurt his angel in some irreparable way, had been his recurring nightmare for millennia. _But that didn't sstop you, did it, you ssselfish bastard_ , Crowley hissed at himself _. Oh, you held yourself back, you showed_ sssuch _self control...but you couldn't do the one thing that would actually keep him sssafe, could you? You didn't leave him alone._ What he had mostly feared through all those long centuries was that he would cause Aziraphale to Fall. Terrible though that thought was - Aziraphale was not remotely well-suited to being a demon - at least he would have been alive and with some freedom of action. Occasionally he had worried that heaven wouldn't bother with that, and would destroy the angel altogether, as they would indeed have done if he and Crowley hadn't worked out how to switch bodies. But the fire was swift; the pain would have had limits. He'd never imagined _this_ might be the end of his stupid, greedy longing for an angel he could never have or deserve.

A jolt startled Crowley out of his cycle of misery and self-recrimination. Something was tugging at him, pulling at his essence in a way that neither he nor his bonds could resist. Pulling at him, but not at the angel. On the other side of the cell, Aziraphale hadn't moved, or given any sign that he felt this irresistible force. 

"Wait! No, no, no. Leave me, take..."

But, before Crowley could finish the sentence, there was a minor thunderclap and he vanished from hell.

1\. Human handcuffs and shackles had never been much of a problem for Crowley; even if they bore some rune that prevented them from being miracled open, his serpent form didn't have wrists or ankles. Hell, however, has had plenty of time to come up with ways to deal with the variety of powers that might be possessed by demons in need of punishment. Back

2\. William Blake, "On Another's Sorrow"Back

3\. And, sad to say, there are such places on earth, not just on other planes.Back

4\. https://poets.org/poems/emily-dickinsonBack

5\. Crowley himself had preferred to focus on the irony of a beauty aid that makes you wrinkle faster.Back

6\. Respectively, "Thousands are sailing", "Navigator", and "The old main drag", plus a variety of songs including a cover of "The band played 'Waltzing Matilda'".Back

7\. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h8ZAqxg__RsBack

8\. "A rainy night in Soho": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PSyL-TrD_2gBack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a rough one! One of the last I finished - I had to keep putting it down every few paragraphs. It gets better next chapter, I promise! So, if you are feeling distressed, just go immediately to chapter 4 and you will probably feel better.
> 
> The demons Rosacarnis and Beroul are characters from the Hellblazer comics. Rosacarnis and John Constantine have a rather complicated story arc but, if that stuff happens at all in this timeline, it takes place after this story. She strikes me almost as an AU Crowley - she's cleverer than the average demon, can pass as a conventionally attractive human, has a full emotional range (or at least did in her childhood), and can manipulate time. But she never was an angel or made friends with one, and she didn't spend centuries wandering earth learning to like humans; Instead, she grew up in the backstabbing society of hell. 
> 
> The other demons come out of varied mythologies, and are either paired with their traditional attributes - a whip for Abraxas, music for Amducias, dreams of suffocation for Drude, drowning for Nicor, darkness and desperation for Belial, lock-opening for Surgat - or were chosen because it seemed like they would be particularly pissed off at Armageddon getting cancelled (Xaphan, Ukobach, Thamuz, and Eligor). 
> 
> As for the stories and songs Crowley reaches for:  
> \- William Blake seems like an author who would appeal to both our protagonists, having an unconventional take for his time on the bible and morality, and writing a lot of weird prophetic poems. One is called "the marriage of heaven and hell". I thought about referencing that one for obvious reasons, but it doesn't lend itself to quotation easily. It does, however, attribute demons with energy, passion, and creativity (rather than their more traditional nasty qualities) and angels with calm organization and rationality, with neither alone being sufficient or ideal. One has to wonder where he might have gotten that idea... ;)  
> \- I left out a verse of "A rainy night in Soho" that, with its reference to 'a ginger lady', actually sounds more like Aziraphale's voice. But I can't see him getting trashed and spilling his guts to a Celtic punk band, whereas I can absolutely picture Crowley doing that.  
> \- I don't think Crowley would have the patience for Tolkien, but I think Aziraphale would like Lord of the Rings and therefore Crowley would humor him by letting him yammer on about it for hours at a time.


	4. The guardian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Main traumatic bit is done, but this chapter does include its immediate after-effects (eg. anxiety, crying, nightmares, etc.)

Crowley's entry into the magic circle was considerably more chaotic and undignified than it had been the last time he'd been summoned. As soon as the lightning flashed, the two onlookers heard the scream of anger and despair. The demon was tumbling as he fell, ragged wings stretched wide. As he struck the ground, he transformed into his snake form, which coiled and tensed.

"Easy, there, mate..."

The snake lashed out toward the voice. His nose hit the edge of the circle with a crackle and he recoiled with a furious hiss.

"Crowley! It's all right, dear boy. It's just me and Mr. Constantine."

At the sound of that beloved voice the snake's jaw dropped. Crowley melted back into his usual shape, though he was still crouched on the ground and seemed confused. "A..angel?"

"That's right, my dear. See, I'm opening the circle now..." Aziraphale blew out one of the candles, and scuffed a shoe across the chalk. As he bent down to take the demon's hand, Crowley gripped his forearms so suddenly that the angel had to kneel.

"It _is_ you. And this, this _is_ earth, isn't it? But how..."

The demon's voice sounded rough and halting, as if it hurt to speak. He looked very much the worse for the wear. His coat was stained and smelled of brimstone and fear sweat, his wings looked threadbare, and the skin around his wrists was raw and red. There were old scratches on one cheek, too, as if something had clawed the demon in the face a month or so ago. His hands were trembling, though he was clearly making some effort to hold himself together in front of the human, who he glanced at suspiciously over his shoulder.

"Mr. Constantine helped me find you," Aziraphale explained. He gave the man in the trenchcoat a meaningful look. "But if you could give us a moment..."

The scruffy wizard shrugged. "Yeah, sure. Wanted a smoke anyway. I'll be outside."

As soon as Constantine was out the door, the angel was engulfed in a crushing embrace. He felt dampness in his hair and realized that, for only the second time he could recall in their 6000 year acquaintance, the demon was weeping. "Oh Angel. Thank Someone. You're here, you're all right..."

Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably. "Dear, I'm so, _so_ relieved to see you too. But, um, I can't breathe."

Crowley loosened his grip. "Oh, shit. Sorry." He looked the angel up and down with a stricken expression, as if worried he had actually damaged him.

"That's perfectly all right, dear boy. At least you weren't still a snake." The angel tried to smile, to indicate this was a joke, but the effect was rather spoiled by his growing concern. "Look, why do you keep going on about _me_? _You're_ the one who's been in hell for two months!" _I was afraid I'd lost you forever_ , Aziraphale thought, but did not say out loud. It didn't seem like that would be helpful right now.

Crowley shuddered. "I thought they had you. Both of us, I mean. Downstairs."

"What?"

Instead of explaining, Crowley just hissed and shuddered and resumed sobbing into the angel's shoulder. Aziraphale wanted to weep too, relief at his favorite being's return turning to horror at the degree of his distress. Could it be that, after more than seven thousand years1, hell had finally broken him? But someone had to take charge of this situation, and Aziraphale was a Guardian in his bones.

"Hush, dear. It's all right, now," he murmured, wrapping his arms around the demon. "I'm perfectly all right - now that you're back, anyway. And I won't let them take you again."

Crowley's sobs subsided slightly, enough for him to speak. "Sssorry, Angel."

"There's nothing to be sorry about. But we _should_ move away from here, if you can. Just in case. Can you walk?"

Crowley nodded weakly.

"Good." Aziraphale gently disentangled the demon's fingers from his lapels, and helped him to his feet. Noticing that Crowley was shivering, the angel took off his ancient camel coat and draped it around his shoulders before leading him outside.

They found Constantine leaning against the outer wall of the church, his trenchcoat wrapped tight against the early evening chill. He chucked away a cigarette butt as they approached. "Ready for the getaway, then?"

A cab was parked by the curb, with a dark-haired man in a cap in the driver's seat.

Aziraphale nodded. "Yes. You should go collect your things. I...well, I didn't have a chance."

Constantine looked the bedraggled demon up and down, noticing the raw circles on Crowley's wrists. "Blimey. Did you forget your safe word, mate?"

Crowley growled at him.

Aziraphale ignored the sorcerer, and just opened the back door of the cab for them. "Mr. Chaz, could you stop by a chemist on the way back?"

The driver nodded. "Sure thing, mate. And it's just Chaz."

"Of course. Mr. Constantine, perhaps you could recommend some first aid products?"

"Why're you asking me?"

The angel put on his prim look. "I may be wrong, but I have the feeling you're the type of fellow who gets punched in the face a lot."

"He's got you there, mate," Chaz chuckled.

Constantine grimaced. "Har har. Fine, I'll duck in and grab something. But you're paying."

He disappeared back into the dilapidated church as Aziraphale got Crowley settled in the back of the cab.

"Oh, do stop _fussing_ , Angel," the demon grumbled as Aziraphale tried to tuck the coat in around him.

Aziraphale brightened slightly. While he didn't believe for a moment that Crowley had actually shrugged off his ordeal - whatever it was - that quickly, it was reassuring that he did have the capacity to at least pretend to be himself while humans were listening. He slid into the cab beside the demon as Constantine re-emerged from the church with a large duffel bag. This got chucked in the boot of the cab.

The sorcerer hopped into the front passenger seat. "Right, Chaz old mate. Let's get out of here before the hellhounds show up, eh?"

By the time they reached the bookshop, Crowley had stopped shivering. But he still kept clutching Aziraphale's hand as if he was afraid he might vanish. When he thought the humans weren't looking, he stared at the angel with golden snake eyes that, with the dark circles beneath and the red rims left by his tears, looked more haunted and unearthly than ever.

"Here," Constantine said, handing over the chemist's bag as they got out of the cab. "You owe me one, ya feathery bastard." Not for the first aid supplies; those had already been paid for. For something far more important.

"I know." _Half the world wouldn't be enough to repay you_ , Aziraphale thought. But he was wise enough not to say that to anyone with such a slippery reputation, settling instead for a heartfelt: "Thank you. For everything."

Aziraphale steered his demon inside the shop and locked the door. "Right, then. What do you need? Can I...make you a cup of tea? Or...or whiskey, perhaps?"

"A bath," Crowley croaked. "Hot."

"Yes, what a good idea," Aziraphale replied, aware that his own voice sounded falsely bright. "Come along, then. We'll have one drawn up in a jiffy."

He led Crowley upstairs and into the little bathroom whose unexpected luxury the demon had noted some four months earlier. Aziraphale turned the taps, but as the steaming water began to fill up the old-fashioned tub a disturbing thought struck him. He had made a bit of a game out of his holy water bath last September, taking rather un-angelic pleasure in the confused and terrified expressions of the demons around him. But he had still had a brief panic attack the next time he had tried to take an ordinary bath in here, imagining what might have happened if they hadn't figured out their 'magic trick'. Not a pleasant thing, to look down at a supposedly calming bath you've prepared for yourself, and instead picture the love of your life screaming and bubbling and melting away in front of you, just like that poor fat little demon. He glanced anxiously at Crowley, but the demon did not seem perturbed. _Of course not,_ the angel remembered with relief. _He wasn't there. That was the whole point._

Crowley had tossed his stinking jacket in the corner, and had started in on unbuttoning his shirt when Aziraphale turned off the taps.

"Right, then. I'll...I'll let you get on with it, shall I?" he said. As he turned to go, he was startled to feel Crowley's urgent grip on his sleeve.

"No, please. I don't..." the demon swallowed painfully. "Don't leave me. Please."

"Of course, dear boy, if you prefer. I'll...I'll just sit over here, then, shall I?" Aziraphale folded down the lid of the pristine commode and perched himself on it awkwardly. 

To most people who had seen the Aziraphale and Crowley interact since the Apocawhoops2, the angel's expression and body language as the demon finished undressing and eased himself into the tub with a groan would have seemed distinctly puzzling. It was just as well that Crowley seemed too focused on getting himself into the water to notice the twitchy mess the angel had turned into.

The thing is, Crowley had actually been telling Rosacarnis the truth. While the idea had crossed their minds on occasion, both angel and demon had agreed that human-style sex seemed a rather clumsy, messy, and frequently unreliable substitute for the kind of union that their dance of light and dark energies could achieve3. Touch did enhance the experience, of course, but fully disrobing wasn't required and, thus far, they hadn't. It would have been hard to explain _why_ , exactly. After all, with as close as they _had_ gotten, not to mention literally wearing each other's bodies, it wasn't as if they didn't _know_ who was Making The Effort, and who wasn't. But perhaps some combination of not having discussed _why_ they had different preferences4, and the fact that it didn't have much practical significance, had coalesced into a sense that they ought to respect each other's privacy in the matter. Which was why this one-sided nudity was making Aziraphale uncomfortable. Crowley seemed so heart-breakingly vulnerable right now. It felt like the least he could do to look away and preserve that dignity. But, on the other hand, the demon didn't seem to care about that right now, and had pleaded with him to stay, so maybe it would be hurtful to _refuse_ to look at him. Then again...

Crowley sank into the steaming water, mercifully ending this internal argument. In fact, he disappeared entirely under the surface, and remained there for a full minute. Then two. Then three. This was not initially concerning to the angel. Much as their corporations might beg to differ, neither of them actually needed oxygen. However, at minute four, Aziraphale cleared his throat. "Um...my dear?"

There was no response.

He leaned over the tub, and raised his voice slightly. "Crowley! Are you all right in there?"

The demon's head resurfaced like the kracken rising from the depths. "Huh? Oh...yeah."

"Oh, good. It's just, uh...well, that water is _very_ hot," Aziraphale babbled, "and, what with your wrists and all, I wondered if staying completely underwater is entirely wise..."

"'m mostly heat-proof, Angel. See?" A pale hand entirely un-reddened by four minutes in near-scalding water, was held up for inspection. In fact, the raw ring around the wrist looked slightly less inflamed.

Crowley leaned his head on the end of the tub nearest Aziraphale and closed his eyes. "I needed thisss. It was ssso cold."

Aziraphale didn't question this. His personal experience with hell had been limited, but it was enough to illustrate that the whole place wasn't just pits of fire and brimstone. The execution chamber hadn't been hot, just unpleasantly stuffy. He could fully believe that some regions could be unpleasantly cold. Of _course_ that would be where they would stick a Serpent.

"Should I...Would you like me to wash your hair?" the angel asked.

Yellow eyes blinked at him. "Don't need to do that...C'n manage." His voice still sounded rough.

Aziraphale sighed. "I know, my dear. But I feel rather useless right now. I'd like to do something for you. If you want me to, I mean."

Another blink, and a sigh. "Yeah. All right."

Aziraphale squirted some conditioning shampoo into his hand and began working it through the demon's damp red curls. Crowley leaned into the touch, and made a noise somewhere between a purr and a sob.

"Er, is that all right?" the angel asked anxiously.

"Yeah. Yeah, that's good," Crowley managed to say, his eyes squeezed shut. "It's just...I thought I'd never...That you'd..." He shook his head slightly. "Never mind. Tell you later, maybe."

"Of course, my dear." Aziraphale found a cup and poured water over the demon's head until it ran clear, being sure to keep the suds out of his eyes. "There now. All done."

"Hmm. I smell like you now," Crowley commented, sniffing the air.

"Umm..."

"No, I mean...That's perfect, actually."

The water was starting to go cold, so Crowley moved to get out of the tub. Aziraphale, who had by now gotten over his moment of awkwardness, handed him a large fluffy towel and got another to help dry his hair. The black pajama pants were hanging on a hook on the door, and Crowley eased himself into them5. The angel had noticed with relief that there didn't seem to be much visible, physical damage, just the raw circles around the demon's wrists, the mostly-healed scratches on his cheek, and some bruises in odd places, like his knees and the undersides of his forearms. So the angel just smeared some antiseptic cream over Crowley's wrists, and wrapped a bandage around each to make sure nothing rubbed against them.

"Now then," Aziraphale said gently, steering the demon across the hallway, "Let's get you into bed so you can get some rest, hmm?"

Crowley certainly did not resist that suggestion, but just dropped into bed with a deep groan.

Aziraphale lifted the duvet over him, and then paused. "Er, I think I need a moment in the bathroom myself. Is it all right if I just..."

"N..." The demon looked panicky for a moment, but controlled himself. "I mean, yeah, of course. But...bless it, this is embarrassing. Could you, I don't know, sing to yourself or whistle or something? Just so I know you're still there?"

Aziraphale of course agreed. Crowley lay back under the duvet, staring at the ceiling, and listening to the muffled, slightly off-key humming emanating from the bathroom. He thought he recognized the tune that most people would call 'When Johnny comes marching home' but which he suspected was meant to be 'Johnny I hardly knew ye' 6.

The angel re-appeared, clad in his ridiculous, baggy Burberry pajamas, and slid into his side of the bed.

Crowley thought his heart might burst, and he berated himself for wanting to ask for anything else. But he asked anyway. "Hey, Angel. I know this is silly, but could...could I see your wings? Just for a bit?"

"Of course, dear boy." Aziraphale unfurled his snowy wings, and noticed the relief that crossed the demon's face. "Satisfied?"

"Oh, yes." Crowley stroked a white feather. Then he frowned slightly. "You should take better care of them, though. You've got loose feathers coming out all over."

The demon's own wings were always meticulously groomed, and Aziraphale knew he found keeping them that way enjoyable, as well as a point of pride. "Would you like to help me with that?" the angel suggested. "It's hard to reach the ones in the back, you know." Aziraphale hoped that perhaps this pleasant, rather meditative activity would - ironically - ground Crowley, and remind him that he was home, that he was safe.

Perhaps Crowley thought so too, because he took on the job without another word. As the demon combed through the angel's wings, removing loose feathers and straightening up any that had become disarranged, Aziraphale noticed that he seemed to spend extra time stroking the top edge of each wing and the bony part where they connected to the angel's back. It was a pleasant sensation, but something about it was unsettling, too. It was as if the demon was reassuring himself that the angel's wings were whole and undamaged.

"Ah, that's much better. Thank you, my dear," Aziraphale said, stretching his wings, and then folding them against his back. "Would you like me to do yours?"

Crowley seemed unusually reluctant to unfurl his wings. "Oh, I don't know, Angel."

"Please? You know it always relaxes you..." He pouted slightly.

To the angel's relief, Crowley gave a familiar amused snort. "I never should have told you about the power of that look. All right, then."

When the demon turned his back and unfolded his wings, Aziraphale could see why he'd been hesitant. Many of the long primaries were broken, and the unbroken ones were scorched at the tips. The upper part of both wings looked thin. It could be due to stress-shedding, though there were a few bald patches where the skin underneath was raw, as if someone had yanked out feathers that were still firmly attached. Still, they should grow back in time. For now the angel did his best to straighten and tidy what was left.

By the time Aziraphale started in on the second wing, Crowley had relaxed enough to lie down on his left side. When the right side was done, the angel wrapped his arms around the demon, the dark wings pressed against his chest. He took in the warmth and the scent of his beloved former-adversary-but-never-enemy, and for the first time that day allowed the tears to well in his eyes.

"I'm so sorry, my dear. I...I should have listened more. Asked more questions. You were right, about the threat. I shouldn't have let you take on the burden of protecting us alone."

"That's...I wanted to." The demon's voice cracked. "I would die for you, Angel."

"I know that, you stubborn idiot, but I don't _want_ you to! You think I'd care to spend forever on earth without you?"

With his nose buried in the demon's hair, Aziraphale couldn't see Crowley's expression, but he felt something like the ghost of an ironic chuckle. "Well, it was _you_ who ended up rescuing _me_. This is getting to be a habit. I should be embarrassed, but...thanks, Angel."

They lay in silence for a while before Aziraphale got up the courage to ask: "Do you want to talk about what happened?"

"NO!" The demon started violently for a moment, and the angel could feel his wings spasm between them, before he got hold of himself. "That is...I don't think I should."

"Crowley, whatever they did to you, I can see you're still hurting. If it would help to talk about it, I'll listen."

The demon sighed. "That's just it, Angel. They didn't do anything to me. Not directly."

"But the bruises, your wrists.... And your wings - some of those feathers were _pulled_."

"Er, yeah. That was mostly me, I'm afraid."

Aziraphale sat up suddenly. "What? _Why?_ "

"Because they were hurting _you_ , Angel." The demon's voice cracked, and he curled in on himself. "Or...I thought they were. And I couldn't save you. I tried, but everything I tried made it worse. All I could do was watch. Watch, and try to talk away the pain."

Aziraphale lay back down and wrapped his arms around Crowley once more. "Oh. Should I ask what..."

"NO. It _wasn't_ you, so I don't want you to have those images in your head too," the demon said firmly. "But put it like this... Towards the end 'you' said you wished you'd never met me."

Aziraphale hugged him closer. "I would never."

"Yeah, well, at the time it seemed like a very reasonable sentiment, Angel. You would never have been in any real danger, either during the Apocawhoops or now, if it wasn't for me."

"Nor would _you_ , if I hadn't been for _me_ ," Aziraphale pointed out. "Would you trade any of it?"

Crowley relaxed again into the angel's embrace. "Not for myself, no." _Not even knowing how vulnerable love makes me, how much it can hurt_ , he added to himself.

The angel nodded firmly. "Well then. Let's hear no more about it, eh?"

As he drifted off to sleep, Crowley melted back into his serpent form, his dark coils looped around the angel as if unconsciously seeking the greatest possible amount of contact. Aziraphale stroked the demon's glossy scales drowsily. Though the two months of worry had surely not been as bad as whatever Crowley had experienced, he was mentally exhausted, and soon allowed himself to sleep as well.

It didn't last long. A few hours later, the angel woke to a scream. Crowley was perched on the edge of the bed, wings spread as if to flee, looking confused and frightened.

The angel took his hand. "It's all right, dear boy. You were just having a nightmare."

The demon calmed down fairly quickly, but he still looked shaken. "I...I thought I was back Down There. And you were there too. But I knew their game, so I didn't bat an eye. I played it real cool. Only...only this time it _was_ really you." He gulped. "Ssso...so you'd h...had to listen to me be all sssarcastic wh...while you were being tortured. Oh, Angel, I'm ssso sssorry."

"You don't have to apologize. It didn't happen."

"Right. Yeah." He let out a deep breath. "It felt real, though."

"But it wasn't. Now come on...please try to relax."

Crowley sighed, and curled up once more with his head on Aziraphale's chest. The angel stroked his dark red curls. A thought struck him. He might not be able to do any healing miracles, but maybe...

Aziraphale closed his eyes, and thought about everything he loved about Crowley. His attentiveness and thoughtfulness toward himself, of course. The way that, even as hell's employee, even while swearing up and down that he was anything but _nice_ , he'd always tried not to do any serious harm to humans. His protectiveness toward children in particular. His cheeky smile, his sarcastic wit, and his talent for asking inconvenient but important questions. Even the things that, while initially annoying, had become endearing, like his theatrical mood swings, his reckless driving, or his taste in modern music. As the angel ran down the list, his ethereal glow brightened. It didn't blaze, as in more ardent moments, but lit up softly and gently like the sky just before dawn.

Crowley shifted as the light enveloped him. "Wzzt? Hmm. That feels nice."

"Hush. Just relax. I've got you, and you've got me."

"Mkay." The demon snuggled in closer. He drifted off, lulled by a warm cocoon of love.

Once he heard Crowley's breathing take on its regular sleeping rhythm, Arziraphale sighed. This really wouldn't do. They couldn't spend the rest of eternity - or even the next decade - looking over their shoulders and afraid to let the other out of their sight. Trying not to jostle Crowley, who had once more fallen into an exhausted sleep, Aziraphale stretched out one arm and just managed to snag the demon's cell phone off the bedside table. With much effort and a lot of corrections, he composed and sent two text messages.

1\. Actually, given that the sun and the earth didn't exist yet, it is hard to say how long ago the Fall was. Demons reckon it was 1000 years before the creation, and given that they had time to get to grips with their new shapes and situations, re-name themselves, establish a brutal hierarchy, build pandemonium, and develop at least one unique language, that seems fair. On the other hand, to the slightly shell-shocked angels rushing to complete the design of the universe on half a crew, it seemed more like 100.Back

2\. And, let's be honest, a good chunk of those who'd seen them interact over the past few millennia. Back

3\. Well, technically, Aziraphale had posed this hypothesis and Crowley - based on a few experiments and a great deal more observation - had concurred. As the demon had put it: If you had access to a fine Chateau Leoville Barton, you _could_ still choose to drink a nameless House Red...but why would you, except for the sake of variety and experiment?Back

4\. In his head, Aziraphale had gone back and forth on whether Crowley always Made The Effort (in one direction or the other) and then chose the slinkiest, closest-fitting garments appropriate to the local human culture as a way of showing off, or whether the sartorial choices came first and The Effort was more of an accessory that ensured they worked as designed. Crowley, for his part, guessed that Aziraphale would say something along the lines of: "Oh, well, one sort has a mind of its own and also gets sort of tangled up in things and needs to be rearranged. Rather vulgar. The other is better behaved - as far as anyone else can tell - but has a distressing tendency to bleed at intervals. Really, they're just more trouble than they're worth." This was because closest he had come to getting the angel to admit that God is a practical joker involved a discussion of these particular bits of human anatomy.Back

5\. He had quickly decided against the top for sleeping in, but before the recent unpleasantness had been contemplating whether he could style it out as a shirt-cum-jacket sort of thing.Back

6\. They have the same tune, but while the first is a celebration of a soldier's prospective triumphant return, the latter does not shy away from the costs of war and resolves never to repeat it ( _They're rolling out the guns again, but they'll never take back our sons again; No, they'll never take back our sons again; Johnny, I'm swearin' to ye_ ). Given the circumstances, and Aziraphale's usual opinions on war, those lyrics seemed much more likely to be the ones playing in his head. To hear the song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RTYBtj0gFcY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be assuming that immortal beings process trauma somewhat differently from humans, in the same way they must have larger-capacity memories. If they didn't, all demons, plus any angels who had to watch the nastier things humans do to each other, would probably not have been able to keep doing their jobs after the first few centuries. All that is to say...it's largely uphill from here, though there will be some anxiety attacks, nightmares, and dark thoughts to be dealt with. For Crowley, that includes going snake-shaped and short-tempered.  
> If you want a version that is probably more realistic (in human terms), check out the moving and also rather funny "Demonology and the tri-phasic model of trauma: and integrative approach" by Nnm.


	5. With a little help from my friends

When Crowley had strolled out the door two months earlier with a casual "Off to see to a few things, Angel. See you tonight," Aziraphale hadn't thought much of it. The demon was always wandering off on slightly mysterious errands, after all. But as the evening dragged on the angel found it harder and harder to concentrate on his reading, as he listened for the tinkle of the doorbell that never came. By morning, he had become convinced something must be wrong. Out of habit, he called Crowley's apartment, but only got a dial tone. _Oh right...it's sublet,_ he remembered. _The number must have been changed_.

He dialed the demon's cell phone instead. There was a strange echoey quality to the ring, he thought. Then he realized the "echo" was coming from inside the room. Glancing over at his desk, he saw a book vibrating. Crowley's phone was tucked underneath.

"What on earth..." Aziraphale muttered, picking up the sleek black rectangle. _Why would he go out and leave his phone behind?_ It had to be a message of some sort. But what? He had a horrible suspicion it was something along the lines of: 'If I don't come back to pick this up before you get worried and call me...be worried.'

_Don't panic; We've been here before_ , Aziraphale reminded himself. He sat down and concentrated. But he could detect no sign of the demon's dark flame anywhere in the city. He closed his eyes and stretched his ethereal senses out further. Still nothing, no matter how far he looked.

 _What if he's not on earth? What if he's not ANYWHERE?,_ a treacherous thought whispered.

_No, I'm not going to think like that. He knew hell was after him. Perhaps he's gone into hiding somewhere far away. Or perhaps he's Down There, and that's why I can't sense him._

_And maybe they decided to see if 'his' holy water immunity has worn off_ , the dark thought added.

Aziraphale put up the 'Closed' sign in the window and went out. Still arguing with himself, the angel made his way across town to an unassuming-looking garage rental facility. Ah, yes - as he suspected, he could sense some residual demonic energy inside. Ordinarily he would have dematerialized and reappeared inside, but that was no longer an option. Oh well. He'd just have to rely on the kindness of strangers.

"Hello," he said, giving the girl at the front desk the most twinkling smile he could manage under the circumstances, "I wonder if you could help me. My friend asked me to check on his car, but I seem to have forgotten the key."

She eyed him carefully. "Name?"

"It would be under Anthony J. Crowley."

"I mean your name, sir."

"Oh. Mr. A.Z. Fell."

She checked her notes. "Ah yea. That's all right then."

"Really?" Aziraphale tried not to look too surprised, but he certainly hadn't expected this level of cooperation.

"Yea. He said as you might be coming by. Gave a description and everythin'. Said you was a bit absent-minded but we should let you in even if you didn't have the key."

"Did he? How very perspicacious of him."

She opened up garage number three, to reveal the Bentley. "Just shut the door when yer done, sir. It'll lock automatically."

The car had lost a bit of its usual gleam. "You've got a bit of dust on you there, old girl," Aziraphale muttered, pulling out his handkerchief to set that right.

Then he opened the front door, and sat down in the driver's seat, which still carried Crowley's distinctive smell of cinnamon and ash. "I suppose you've been missing him longer than I have," the angel said, patting the steering wheel. He didn't know _why_ exactly he'd suspected the car could help, but as he closed his eyes and concentrated his senses did seem to be strengthened. They reached straight out across the Atlantic, across the Mediterranean, into the far distant steppes. But for all the souls, all the energies he could feel, the only one that mattered was the only one he couldn't find. He shut the garage, thanked the girl at the desk, and went home.

Aziraphale opened up the bookshop, and spent the afternoon alternately pacing the floor and contemplating the abandoned cell phone. He was sure there was more to Crowley's decision to leave it behind than he was seeing. _And he told the garage attendants to look out for me...is that part of the message? Am I meant to take the car? Take it where? Or was that completely unrelated?_ From time to time a customer came in, and the angel found himself selling them things without questions or conversation just to get them out of the shop faster. At one point he had a wild thought of marching up to the gates of hell and demanding that they hand his demon over, but he squashed it quickly. He could just picture Crowley's reaction if he knew he'd even considered it: That elaborate frustrated groan and head roll, followed by: 'Seriously, angel? What did I say about not doing anything stupid while you're de-powered? You're supposed to be the clever one.' The angel glanced at the circular rug that hid the magic circle that was his hotline to heaven. _I say - could I have a chat with the earth observation department? I want to make sure my favorite demon hasn't come to harm._ No, that wouldn't go over well.

Magic, though... There was more to magic than the angelic and demonic varieties. Should he call first? No - demons could co-opt technology, couldn't they? He wasn't clear on how that worked, but just in case Crowley was in hiding he didn't want to take the chance. Someone might be listening for chatter involving the demon's name. He shut up the shop as soon as he decently could, and made his way to the roof. The sun was almost fully set, and the evening was turning foggy. Good - that should be enough cover. He spread his wings and launched upward.

~~~

Aziraphale landed in the garden of Jasmine Cottage, and leaned against a tree to catch his breath. It had been a long time since he'd flown more than a few miles; Soho to Tadfield was nearly eighty. It should have taken him less than an hour and a half. He'd left more than four hours ago; the landscape looked considerably different from the air, in the dark and the fog. But he was here now. He went up to the front door. The horseshoe, he noticed with a pang, had been taken down1.

The angel raised his hand to knock on the door. Before he could, it opened, revealing Anathema, wrapped in a purple dressing gown. She blinked at him. "Aziraphale? What are you doing here?"

"Did you know I was going to knock?" the angel blurted out, startled.

"Sort of. I had a feeling." She looked behind him, clearly expecting to see Crowley and the Bentley, and noticed the wings folded up behind his back. "Did you _fly_ here?"

"Yes. I'm sorry, but I need some help and I wasn't sure where else to turn."

The witch sighed. "All right, come in. Do you want some tea or something?"

"I hope we aren't disturbing young Newton," Aziraphale said as they made their way to the kitchen.

"No, he's not here. It...we...things didn't work out."

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry."

Anathema pulled the kettle out of a cupboard and filled it. "It's...fine. We just...well, it took us a while to work out, but once the whole prophecy and Armageddon thing was over we found we didn't really have much in common." She switched on the stove and sat down. "He's all right, though. He's found a shop in Oxford that sells model kits and does all their accounts on paper. He'll probably be running it by next year."

Aziraphale heard the wobble in her voice, and took her hand. "And are _you_ all right, my dear?"

"Oh yeah. Or, you know - I will be." Sometimes she wished she'd kept Agnes's sequel book of prophecies. She ached to know if she was making the right choices...but, then again, not knowing was the whole point of living your own life.

The kettle whistled, and she got up to fill the teapot. "I've started selling herbal teas and soaps at the local farmer's market."

"Agnes's recipes?"

"Hell no! Like her prophecies, those tend to be more accurate, or in this case effective, than people are comfortable with. No, these are my own inventions."

 _Given that you seem to be inheriting the prophetic talent, they might not be so innocuous_ , Aziraphale thought, but did not say. After all, there were more urgent matters at hand. "Mmm. Well, speaking of magic, that's why I'm here."

Anathema gave the angel an odd look. " _You're_ coming to _me_ about magic? You and Crowley could fly rings around me in that department." She paused, realizing she'd almost never seen one without the other. "Where is he, anyway? You two haven't had a fight, have you?"

The angel wrung his hands. "That's just it. Crowley's gone missing. I've no idea where he is. It has me terribly worried. Normally I could find him but I...my powers are seriously diminished at the moment. I can't do any miracles at all, and I can't be sure that isn't affecting my ethereal senses in some way."

"So you want me to see if _I_ can find him."

"Yes, if you would. I remembered you said you had some tricks you used when you were looking for Adam..."

Anathema poured the tea, and sighed. "Well, the dowsing rods and pendulum worked there - kind of - because the antichrist makes ley lines go all wonky. Demons don't do that."

The angel clutched his cup miserably. "So there's nothing you can do?"

"I didn't say that. Let me see what I can come up with."

After a bit of thought, Anathema pulled out a dark ceramic bowl and filled it with water from the tap. Then she set the bowl on the table and dimmed the lights.

"What is this for?" Aziraphale asked.

"My grandmother taught me about scrying when I was a little girl," the witch replied. "Never had much use for it - we relied more on Agnes's prophecies when it came to the future - but it can be used to see things happening in the present. To target it...do you happen to have something that belongs to Crowley with you?"

"Will this do?" the angel asked, handing over the abandoned cell phone, which he had been carrying around like a talisman since he had found it.

"It should. Now, don't bump the table. The water must be perfectly still."

Anathema waited for the ripples in the water to subside, and waved the phone over surface, muttering a few words with her eyes closed. She leaned over the bowl, opened her eyes, and then, as her grandmother put it, _opened her eyes again_. "Show me Crowley," she whispered. A vision swam into view. It was blurry and incomplete, but she could see the face of the red-headed demon. He was missing his glasses, and seemed to be screaming. A sense of terrible pain and anger and fear came with it. The witch caught her breath, hoping the angel couldn't feel what she felt. "Where are you?" she muttered. The vision went black suddenly. She searched for a location, but though images from across the world flickered across her Sight for a second at a time and disappeared. Nothing matched. Anathema blinked and sat back with a sigh.

"What did you see?" Aziraphale asked anxiously.

"Well, you were right. I don't think he's on earth, but wherever he is he's in serious trouble."

"But you saw him? He's alive?"

"Yes." _For now_ , she thought, but did not say out loud. Her eye fell on the sleek black rectangle she'd waved over the water. "Wait. You have his phone?"

"He left it behind - I'm sure deliberately."

"Have you tried checking the recent calls?"

The angel blinked. "Sorry?"

 _Oh, right - Crowley's the one who's good with technology_. "If you look at the call history, it will show you who he called or who called him before he disappeared," the witch said patiently. "Maybe there's a clue there. Or maybe he even left a more direct message - a note or a photo, for instance."

Hopeful, Aziraphale pushed the most obvious button. Then he frowned. "It's locked. It seems to want a four number code."

"And you don't know what numbers Crowley would use?"

"How would I know that? He left it unlocked the last time he wanted me to use it." That had been back when they switched bodies; Crowley had wanted to be able to reach Aziraphale the moment the angel got back to earth.

"Well, a lot of people use birthdays - day and month is four digits," Anathema suggested. "Or a significant year. Or numbers that stand for letters. One is A,B, or C. Two is D,E, or F. And so on."

Aziraphale considered this. "Hmm. Well, neither of us were born, and we were created before there were _days_ at all. But I'll put my mind to it on the flight back."

Anathema raised an eyebrow. Worry was clearly having a bad effect on the angel's brain. "You know you can take the train, right? There's one every forty minutes to Oxford, and then you can switch to the line to London."

"Oh. Right." Aziraphale clasped the witch's hand. "Thank you, dear girl. You don't know how much I appreciate this."

"Of course," she replied. "And please...call me know when you find him, or if you need any more help. Crowley is my friend too, now."

Aziraphale realized he _could_ probably call, after all. He and Crowley had called each other regularly during the lead-up to the Apocawhoops, without hell catching on to what they were up to. True, maybe they hadn't been watching then, but even in his apparently well-founded recent paranoia Crowley hadn't suggested not using the phone. The demon might have been wrong in that...but overall it suggested that either demons didn't tend to tap phones, or Crowley had placed some kind of defense on theirs specifically.

"Yes, naturally. I'll keep in touch."

~~~

As the train rattled through the darkened Oxfordshire countryside, Aziraphale contemplated the mystery of the phone. A four-number code or a four-letter word.

 _'Nice' is a four-letter word,_ the demon's voice hissed in his memory.

That seemed an unlikely choice, but Crowley did have an ironic sense of humor. The angel entered in 6432. The phone buzzed and the number pad vibrated side to side, but nothing happened.

Well, there were the more traditional 'four-letter words', of course. Aziraphale tried 7448, 3825, and several other curse words the demon used most frequently. _Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt._

Aziraphale sighed. "If your message is _on_ the phone, you might have made it a bit easier to get to, you wretched serpent," he muttered under his breath.

 _Hmm. 'Snake' and 'serpent' are too long. So is 'apple', or 'garden'. But what about..._ He typed in 7827: 'Star'.

_Bzzt._

The angel groaned. What other four-letter words were there that might have meaning for the demon. _'Book'? No, that's something I'd use. Then again..._ He tried it. Nothing.

He doubted Crowley would want to be reminded of his former employers every time he turned on his phone, but tried 4355 anyway.

_Bzzt._

As he stood on the platform in Oxford, he wondered if he ought to try numbers. _Years, perhaps? Well, last year was pretty significant._ He tried 2019. Bzzt. _No, it would be weird to use such a recent year as a password, wouldn't it? Perhaps Adam's birth year?_ But 2008 didn't work either. Neither did 1082, the year he had finally agreed to the Arrangement, nor 1492, the year of their first significant collaboration - well, the first _deliberate_ one, anyway1. The angel boarded the train to London and started thinking about four-letter words again - anything he could remotely associate with Crowley. 'Ciao'? _Bzzt._ 'Cool'? _Bzzt._ 'Plan'? _Bzzt._ 'Tree'? _Bzzt._ 'Vice'? _Bzzt._ 'Wine'? _Bzzt._ 'Wing'? _Bzzt._

'Love'? Old Crowley would have gagged, but now...

_Bzzt._

When he reached home, Aziraphale paused for a moment, staring at the sign over the shop: 'A.Z. Fell Booksellers'.

Crowley had joked recently that maybe he ought to adjust his name to match: "Since I've become a permanent installation. Perhaps 'Anthony Crowley Fell'? I mean, it's just an accurate description, really."

As soon as he stepped inside, the angel tried 3355.

_Bzzt._

_Damn it._

Aziraphale's eye fell on his desk, and the book that he had set to the side after finding the phone underneath. It was 'The Birthday of the World', a collection of short stories by Ursula LeGuin. He stared at it, puzzled. He didn't usually stock science fiction written in the last thirty or forty years. Perhaps it was something Crowley had picked up that he knew the angel wouldn't mind selling. But it had been left right on top of the phone. Was it meant to be a clue? If so...what was 'the birthday of the world'?

The angel thought for a moment. Wasn't there some human who had managed to get the correct day of creation according to the modern calendar? He went over to the 'Religion and occult' section of the shop and started poking about. Ah yes, here it was: October 21, 4004 BC. Aziraphale picked up the phone and entered 2110. _Bzzt_. He tried 4004. Still nothing but that irritating buzz.

The angel heaved a frustrated sigh.

 _Hang on. What if the birthday wasn't an origin, but a rebirth?_ He entered 3009. September thirtieth, the day after the Apocawhoops. The first day of the rest of their lives.

 _Bing_. The phone sprang into life.

There weren't any pictures currently stored on the phone. There was, however, a recent note titled "For A."

The angel clicked on it. All it said was: "Mona floorboard,"

Aziraphale went upstairs and pulled aside the loveseat under Crowley's Mona Lisa sketch. He tapped his foot on the boards until he found a loose one. The angel pulled it aside, and found that the space under the floor had been stuffed with bundles of 100£ notes. Well, that explained why the cash jar on the mantel never seemed to go empty. But it didn't solve the mystery of where Crowley _was_ or how to get him back.

Aziraphale glanced back at the phone and another note caught his eye:

_ Expenses: _

_\- Food: £60_ _/m (me) + £265_ _/m (A) [was 95 and 375]_

 _\- Drink: £300_ _/m [was 600]_

 _\- Phone service: £53_ _/m (me) + £25_ _/m (A)_

 _\- Water and electricity etc., shop: £160_ _/m_

_\- Property tax, shop: 0 unless sold or rented?_

_\- Clothing: £430_ _/y (me) + £100_ _/y (A) [lrgr cur. collection]_

 _\- New used books for shop: £600_ _/m_

_\- Moving service: £300_

_\- Garage rental: £150_ _/m_

 _\- Public transport: £300_ _/m_

 _\- A's donations, etc.: £300_ _/m_

 _\- Misc: £250_ _/m_

_Total: £2,532_ _/m or £30,384_ _/y_

 _After this year: £2,307/m or £27,684_ _/y_

_ Income: _

_\- Book sales from collection: £400_ _/y [old average] + £100_ _/y?_

 _\- Sale of new used books?: £15 - 30_ _/m [5% profit margin, at least 50% sold]_

 _Note: too low for income tax?_ 3

_\- Apartment sublet: £1,700_ _/m [after month 1; unless landlord catches on]_

_Total: £1,756 - 1,797_ _/m or £21,080 - 21,560_ _/y [shortfall at least £735/m this year, 510/m in future]_

_\- Art sale: £60,000_ _[one time] - £2,443 [initial expenses]._

_Remainder covers shortfall ~9 years with sublet, ~2 years without._

_ More income needed if m situ. not fixed. _

The angel felt a lump form in his throat. So this was why the demon had kept getting tapping on his phone while they'd been rearranging the shop! He'd worked out early on that there was going to be a problem with expenses but, rather than badgering the angel to run the shop in a fully conventional way, had quietly found his own probably-not-quite-legal ways of making up the difference. _Oh, my dear...and I complained you weren't helping! I should have known better._

Aziraphale moved on to recent calls. There weren't that many on the days preceding Crowley's disappearance. There were a few to and from Aziraphale himself. There were also several unlabeled numbers, but it was probably better not to call those up unless he had to. 'Hello, who is this and why did you call my friend?' was always an awkward way to start a conversation, and he couldn't be sure if the mystery numbers were friend, foe, or spam caller. There was one call out to a Tino's Garage, and one labeled call in: _Constantine_. Aziraphale's grey eyes narrowed as he clicked 'call back'.

~~~

John Constantine was looking over a long-coveted grimoire he'd acquired earlier that evening in a poker game when his phone buzzed. _Crowley_ , the caller ID announced. The sometimes exorcist, sometimes occult detective still hadn't gotten used to communicating amicably with demons by phone. But it was a funny old world, and Constantine was nothing if not adaptable.

"'ullo, mate." He flinched and held the phone slightly farther from his ear. "Where is _who_?"

That certainly wasn't the demon on the end of the line. As the voice demanded to know Crowley's whereabouts in the crisp tones of some toff insisting on speaking to the manager, Constantine knew where he'd heard it before.

"Here, you're that angel. Crowley's, er, 'friend', right?" He listened for a bit. "Look, I don't know where he is. I called to let him know I had a tip. Hmm? Well, he'd been wanting to know how to contact an archangel. Michael. He figured they knew more than they were saying about who in hell was after him. Whazzat? Oh, I got a phone number off an air elemental who owed me a favor. Don't know if he followed up on it..."

The angel asked him to wait a minute. Constantine took the time to light another cigarette. Aziraphale read back a phone number. "Yeah, that's the one."

There was some muffled swearing from the other end of the line. _Strewth, didn't think angels knew language like that_ , he thought. There was a click as the angel hung up. "Well good day to you too, mate," Constantine muttered sarcastically.

~~~

Aziraphale pulled aside the circular carpet that hid a painted circle of runes and sigils. He supposed he _could_ have used the phone number, but he wanted a record of this conversation. Aziraphale lit the candles around the circle and concentrated. A beam of light appeared within the circle.

"Earth agent communications," a slightly bored-sounding angelic voice said.

"Yes. This is the Principality Aziraphale."

"Aziraphale...wait, are you still an earth agent?"

"Never mind that! I demand to speak to the archangel Michael."

"Look, I'm not sure if I should..."

"This is extremely important," Aziraphale said firmly, "Just put me through."

"Right. Hang on..."

There was a pause. Aziraphale thought he could faintly hear a version of 'Climb every mountain' scored for bells. Then the music cut off a ghostly-looking version of Michael appeared in the light beam.

"Ah, Aziraphale. How's semi-mortal life treating you?" the archangel said casually.

"Never mind that," the angel snapped, "What did you do to Crowley?"

Michael raised their eyebrows innocently. "Whatever do you mean?"

"I was under the impression heaven meant to leave us alone. But he disappeared just after talking to you."

"Oh dear. Well, it's nothing to do with me. Are you sure he didn't just tire of you and wander off? Demons can be such fickle things."

Aziraphale clenched his jaw. " _Yes_ , I'm sure. What did you say to him?" He had never itched to smite someone as much as he did right now.

"I'm afraid that's confidential," Michael smirked. "Now, I have some _real_ angelic business to attend to. Lovely chatting with you."

The light snapped off.

Aziraphale forced himself to control his fury while he snuffed out the candles; it would do no good to set off another fire. "Most notable coward, infinite and endless liar, hourly promise breaker, owner of no one good quality," the angel muttered under his breath4 "Thou art unfit for any place but hell". More fit for it than Crowley, that was certain.

Aziraphale picked up the phone, and re-dialed a number. "Mr. Constantine? Yes, sorry about earlier. I think I need your help."

~~~

John Constantine tried to ignore the anxious angel hovering over him and just concentrate on chalking the runes correctly.

"Now are you sure you have everything you need?" Aziraphale asked.

"Yeah, mate. Like I said the last three times you asked. Here, hold this." He shoved a bottle of wine into the angel's hands.

"My dear chap, is this really the time?"

"It's the offering, innit?" Constantine explained wearily, "The instructions for this particular demon specified wine, as opposed to eye of newt or the blood of a black cock or what have you."

"Ah. Well, that does make sense," Aziraphale conceded. He frowned at the label. "Though, if you'd said, I would have brought something better. I wouldn't think a £4 store brand would summon Crowley off the sofa, let alone from wherever he is now. Oh dear, I do hope this works. Are you quite certain this is how you did it last time?"

"Quite certain, thank you. Right, that's it." He stepped back and lit the candles. "You can open up that wine bottle now."

Aziraphale did so, while Constantine said the words that should summon the demon into the circle. As he finished the incantation, he paused awkwardly. There was a faint crackle, but nothing appeared.

"How long do we have to wait?" the angel asked after a moment.

Constantine frowned. "We shouldn't have to wait at all. The bloody thing worked right off before."

Aziraphale's heart dropped. "What does that mean?"

"Not sure."

"It...Does it mean he's dead? That is...not, not just discorporated but...actually gone?"

The sorcerer glanced at the angel's stricken expression, and shrugged. "Nah, shouldn't think so. Usually if there's no match, the spell is a complete dud. I felt _something_... Hmm. Would he be resisting being called, d'you think?"

"Maybe, though I can't think why. I feel certain he wanted me to look for him."

Constantine lit a cigarette and puffed thoughtfully on it for a while. "Are you sure 'Crowley' is the name we oughta be using? It doesn't seem like it matches that sigil. Not that I would know how to say _that_. Do you?"

The angel looked closely at the sigil. "No. It's a language that was used only in hell, in the first millennium or so after the Fall. I'm not sure it _can_ be pronounced by humans...or any human-shaped being, for that matter."

 _Hmm...so this demon is first-generation Fallen. Interesting._ Constantine tucked that thought away for later.

"I've seen Crowley sign that sigil more than once, so it does definitely refer to him," the angel continued. "But yes...I'd go with 'Crowley'. Even though that isn't _quite_ what he was called when we met."

The sorcerer looked at the angel curiously. "Why's that?"

"You said the name is the demon's true self. Well, that's the name that's...that's _him_. He picked it for himself, and he's only used minor variants of it for thousands of years." The angel found himself choking up a bit at the memory, then added sensibly: "Anyway, it worked for you last time."

Constantine scratched his head. "Fair enough, I suppose. But if the name isn't the problem, what else are we doing wrong?"

Aziraphale paced around the circle. After a while, he said: "How exactly did you come up with this design?"

"Found it in a fourteenth century manuscript, along with the wine thing, under the title 'a summoning of thee demon Crowlee'. Seemed almost too easy. But there was even a woodcut of him, dark glasses and all."

Aziraphale made a mental note to try and secure that document. "Ah. This whole thing isn't really my sort of magic but...does it matter where you are summoning a demon _from_?"

"What'cha thinking, mate?"

"Well, the last time you used this spell, and when whoever wrote it down used it, Crowley was being summoned from one point on earth to another. In fact, most likely from one spot in England to another. But he's not _on_ earth at the moment. Does the spell need to be different - stronger, perhaps - if you are summoning a demon from some other plane?"

Constantine coughed and tossed away the end of his cigarette irritably. "Bloody hell, you might have something there. I should have thought..." He paused. "Wait - how are you so bleedin' sure he was on earth when the original ritual was done? I didn't even say _when_ in the fourteenth century."

Aziraphale shrugged. "It doesn't really matter, you see. We've both been stationed on earth pretty much permanently for ages, and spent a good chunk of the 14th century in England. So unless those occultists or whoever they were managed to catch him on one of the two or three days a year that he was visiting head office, they were calling him from somewhere on earth, and probably from quite close."

Constantine made a mental note of that tidbit too. "Well, assuming you're right...yeah, we may need a redesign of the whole bloody ritual. I'll have to consult me books."

Aziraphale's anxious frown returned. "How long is that going to take?"

"Don't know. I've got an old standby or two that's worked on other demons but, well, your friend isn't exactly typical, now is he?"

"No, he's not," the angel said sadly. _Atypical and irreplaceable_. "I'll consult my books as well. And do let me know if you have any questions. We simply must get him back as soon as possible."

~~~

Over the next few weeks, John Constantine grew used to getting calls from Aziraphale at all hours. Given the angel's anxious state and the fact that they were working with completely different magical vocabularies, the suggestions were often initially baffling. On further explanation, though, they often did have some promise if he could figure out how to incorporate them into a summoning.

"Have you considered adding something copper? Well, for energy conduction, old chap! Or perhaps mercury5?"

"If you are going to include the pentacle, I really think it should go point _up_. Hmm? Because he's not actually a satanic agent anymore, you know."

When the angel called him at three in the morning to ask "Do you think it is possible to get an apple branch with fruit, open blossoms, and buds this time of year?" though, he finally snapped.

"Strewth, mate, don't you ever sleep?"

"Well, _no_ , actually. I was experimenting, but..." The angel seemed to be choking up over that, for some reason. "But no, not when there's something important to do."

 _Why did I agree to this?_ the scruffy sorcerer wondered. _Because, John,_ he answered himself, _having an angel in your debt, even one currently without powers, is a rare and potentially useful thing. And you like a challenge. Also, admit it...you're just curious. You want to know what the bloody hell is up with this pair._

"OK, I'll bite: Why apple blossoms?"

"A branch with all three forms was considered the key to the underworld by the Celts. And...well, it seemed right. Personal affinity, let's say."

John Constantine lit the last candle and stepped back. "Right. I think we may have it."

"That's what you said the last three times."

The sorcerer glared at the angel. "Christ, have a little faith, will you? I thought your lot were supposed to be good at that."

Whereas the first summoning attempt had been based on a simple Goetic design - Crowley's sigil in the center of a circle of runes surrounded by an inverted pentacle of candles - this time the sigil and rune circle were surrounded by a heptagram whose points were marked out by candles in copper dishes, intersecting an outer ring. In lieu of the cheap wine, Aziraphale had brought along a bottle of Crowley's favorite single malt scotch as the offering.

Constantine rolled his neck and shook out his shoulders. "Right. Let's do this."

As the sorcerer spoke the invocation, directing the words hellward, Aziraphale felt the hairs raise up on his neck. The occult energies were undeniable, and as the flash came, for a moment he thought he saw a ghostly image of Crowley in the center of the circle. The demon was slumped on the floor, but seemed to look up just a fraction of a second before the lightning fizzled out and the image disappeared.

Constantine kicked over a candle irritably. "Arrgh, fucking hell." He glanced over at the angel, who was kneeling on the ground, staring at the center of the seal with an anguished expression. "Look, don't worry, mate. We nearly had it that time. We'll figure it out. Maybe we need to boost the signal somehow."

~~~

Adam's school play was just the kind of glorious madness Crowley had predicted it would be. The prime minister got eaten by a Tyrannosaurus, the aliens vaporized the American president and then were fought off by a band of cowboys, Dog turned into a giant three-headed beast for the final battle, and all the good guys were rewarded with ice cream for life at the end. There were plenty of familiar elements too, of course: a kraken defending the whales, rains of fish, the Them fighting the four horsepersons, Aziraphale's possession of Madame Tracy6, and, heart-rendingly, a dark figure in sunglasses swaggering out of a flaming car7. At the final bow, most of the parents in the audience looked rather shell-shocked. Besides an end-of-the-world story being a bit unusual for a school play, the elements that had shown up on TV were likely triggering some unsettling memories. But as Anathema rose to give an enthusiastic standing ovation most of the adults followed. After all, whatever the content, you couldn't deny the artistry on display was damn impressive for anything made by 10-12 year olds.

Outside, Adam dashed up to the angel and the witch, a dark cloak spangled with stars billowing from his shoulders. "Wasn't that wicked? Did you like it?"

"Yes, indeed. A very imaginative production," Aziraphale said weakly.

Adam frowned and looked behind them. "Hey, where's Crowley? He said he'd come. I thought he'd like the bit where I beat Satan in a guitar competition8. Anathema gave me the idea."

The angel looked at the witch, who shrugged. "I played him 'The devil went down to Georgia', and it kind of escalated from there."

Aziraphale looked back at the former Antichrist. "Crowley...couldn't come. He's...indisposed. But, um, Anathema did help me film the whole thing. I'm sure he's...he's very sorry to have missed it."

Aziraphale was a terrible liar under the best of circumstances, and Adam was far too perceptive a child not to notice that the angel was barely holding himself together. "What's wrong? Did something happen to Crowley? Is he sick? Do demons _get_ sick, with like....like demon pox, or wing scale or something?"

"Yes. No. I mean, he's not sick."

"He's in some trouble, but we're working on it," Anathema smiled at Adam. "It's nothing you need to worry about."

"Are you sure? We could help, Pepper and Brian and Wensley and me."

"It's under control," Anathema said firmly, "But we'll keep your offer in mind."

" _Is_ it under control?" the witch asked, as soon as she had ushered the angel back to her cottage.

"No!" Aziraphale put his face in his hands as the tears began to flow. "It's...we were so close last time. We almost had it, but..."

"OK, back up. Who's 'we', and almost had what?"

"There's this magician fellow who managed to summon Crowley about three months ago. It...wasn't the best of introductions, but Crowley stayed in contact. He was following up on a tip the chap had given him - a contact number for the archangel Michael - when he disappeared. I thought he could just repeat the process, but it's turned out to be a lot more complicated than we thought."

He told Anathema about the latest summoning attempt. She bit her lip, and nodded. "Hmm. So you weren't able to bring him through. But you did confirm that he's Down Below, and still alive."

Aziraphale nodded miserably.

"Well, that's good. Er, not the hell bit but...you know. You'll get him back. I know you will." She was able to put quite a bit of confidence into the last sentence because she didn't just hope that this was the case: she'd Seen it. The trouble was, Anathema didn't know _when_ the vision was from. It could be a hundred years in the future for all she knew. Their outfits hadn't shifted much, but given that the angel's waistcoat was 150 years old, that didn't necessarily mean anything.

"Thank you, dear girl. But I don't know why the summoning spells aren't working, and we can't leave him down there!"

The witch drummed her fingers on the table. "I wonder..."

~~~

Constantine's phone rang. "'ullo?" he sighed.

"What if there's some kind of counter-spell?" he heard the angel's voice say, without pre-amble.

"A counter-spell?"

"Well, I don't know if that's the technical term. We've confirmed he's in hell, yes? What if, to make sure he can't use his shape-shifting or other tricks to get out, they've put some kind of binding on him? Could that be interfering with your magic?"

Constantine groaned. "Bloody Nora, you're right. Why didn't I think of that?" _Well, probably because you've never tried to spring anything out of demon-jail, John._ "Right, we'll have to find a way to boost the signal or counter whatever runes or charms they're using to hold him."

~~~

For the seventh time in the past two months, John Constantine drew Crowley's snaky sigil. But this time he painted it in mercury on the floor of an abandoned church. Deconsecrated, of course, but it was still a site of greater power than the usual abandoned warehouse or basement. He surrounded the sigil with an upright pentagram and the circle of summoning runes in chalk, and around that drew an octagram made of two intersecting squares, indicating the balance of opposing energies - the spiritual and material, yin and yang, the four elements plus the four cardinal directions, etc. He placed the candles in their copper dishes at each point of the octagram and lit them. The bottle of scotch was open, allowing the vapors to permeate the seal. Beside it in a vase stood an apple branch with buds, flowers, and even a few developing fruits, which Aziraphale had wheedled a horticulturist acquaintance into harvesting from the temperate house at Kew gardens.

The sorcerer picked up a sword and the paper on which he'd drafted the new invocation. Then he hesitated. "You know what, mate...why don't you do the honors?"

"What? Are...are you sure?"

Constantine shrugged. "Well, we're trying to break a hellish binding. Can't think of anyone better to do that than an angel. Besides, you two clearly, er, have a bond. Maybe your voice will help."

Aziraphale nervously took the sword, and cleared his throat.

_"Invoco te, Crowley, nondum spiritum, creata ante diem et noctem. Veni ad me."_

He gestured at the bottle and the branch. _"Vide: Nos munera donum a laetificare cor tuum, ad celeritatum peregrinatione tua."_

The angel raised the sword. _"Nec quidquam obstat, neque angeli neque daemoni, neque maledictus neque magicae. Audite me, et veni ad me, ubicumque es, sub terra aut super terram."_

The sword in Aziraphale's hand did not flame, but it began to glow with silver light. _"Nunc veni, Crowley. Frange omnibus catenae qui ligat te, etiamsi fictum in inferno. Veni, super alas de fulguri et venti. Audite me, et veni."_

The lightning flashed, and the angel and the sorcerer heard the demon scream as he plummeted into the circle.

1\. The last time they had visited, Crowley had complained that it made him itch. Back

2\. See "No one expects the Spanish Inquisition" in which they attempt to put a stop to that institution, and to restart the Florentine Renaissance, and the upcoming "The light that is coming in the morning".Back

3\. It has been noted the Aziraphale, despite filing his taxes religiously and with scrupulous accuracy, gets audited frequently. This probably has something to do with his business expenses exceeding his profits every single year. Back

4\. Ordinary profanity was all very well, but nothing could beat a Shakespeare insult. Back

5\. Long associated with serpents, trickster gods, and the border between life and death.Back

6\. Achieved by both child actors mincing about back-to-back inside a garishly-colored poncho, and alternately turning to face the audience to deliver their lines. Back

7\. Orange and red streamers, animated by a fan, produced a surprisingly convincing low-budget effect.Back

8\. 'We will rock you' being the winning song. Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was fun to switch to Aziraphale's perspective here to get a look at his approach to problem-solving. Crowley seems more the impulsive 'man of action' type, who can scheme with the best of them but also improvises a lot and is in the habit of not sharing his plans. Aziraphale is a researcher, meticulous and persistent - annoyingly persistent when it serves his purposes (see his approach to deciphering the Nice and Accurate Prophecies). He's more open and trusting, and would be more likely to turn to friends for help when needed, much as he accepted Crowley's help in the past. He undoubtedly has a hidden badass side but would prefer to argue everyone into a reasonable compromise rather than fight (see last-minute pleading with heaven re. Armageddon). 
> 
> Apologies to anyone who liked Newt and Anathema as a pair. Personally, it always bugged me that the only 100% confirmed couple in Good Omens barely knew each other and seemed to be getting together mainly because Agnes' prophecies said so. In fact, the influence of the prophecies are emphasized so strongly that I wonder if it is actually a wink and a nod to how often romance is just "boy + girl = kiss". Hard to tell, though, because (apologies, Sir Terry; I love you!) "traditional" romance subplots are a bit weak in the Discworld books too, especially compared to the really strong writing of friendships and long-term relationships. Anyway, this is not a story that is safe for characters with zero powers, and I like Newt enough to want him out harm's way. On a related note...no, I'm NOT planning on setting Anathema up with Constantine. He is a mess, and a health hazard to all mortal partners. But her new powers should give her decent survivability in his vicinity, and she would definitely be able to call him on his BS.
> 
> The idea for the 14th century manuscripts with a summoning spell specific to Crowley came from 'By your side' by Bischedule (neununneunzig), though the setting for that story is quite different.
> 
> The invocation might be complete gibberish. Even my one semester of Latin more than a decade ago was enough to tell me that google translate wasn't performing correctly, so I tried to fix it on my own. It should means something like: "I invoke you, Crowley, spirit created before day or night. Come to me. See, we bring you gifts to gladden your heart and speed your journey. Let no barrier hinder you, neither angel nor demon, neither curse nor spell. Hear me, and come to me, wherever you are, under the earth or over the earth. Come, Crowley. Break any chain that binds you, even if forged in hell. Come, on wings of lightning and wind. Hear me, and come."


	6. The council of war

Anathema ignored the "Closed for family emergency" sign in the bookshop window and hurried inside. She spotted Aziraphale sitting at his desk, studying a large and ancient-looking tome.

"I caught the train down first thing after I got your message. How is he?"

Aziraphale gestured downward towards his left foot. "Could be better."

Anathema came closer and peeked around the edge of the desk. There was a very large black snake underneath. It was possibly asleep - snakes can't close their eyes, but it seemed to be snoring faintly - with its tail coiled tightly around the angel's ankle.

"Oh. Huh. I always thought Agnes was being metaphorical with the whole 'chariot of the serpent' thing."

"No, very much literal, I'm afraid."

In fact, Crowley had spent most of the morning in this form, acting extremely clingy. The second impulse was entirely relatable; if Crowley hadn't been clinging to _him_ , it would have taken a great deal of self control for Aziraphale _not_ to go trailing around after the demon every second. The amount of time Crowley was spending in snake form, on the other hand... Aziraphale had noticed in the past that Crowley mostly did that when he was overwhelmed with emotions he didn't want anyone to see. He had for instance, spent most of their first conversation regarding the then-ongoing Spanish Inquisition either drunk, snake-shaped, or both. And the combination of the two factors did make things a bit challenging. Aziraphale had only managed to go down to the kitchen to make his morning tea, and into the shop to open the door, by wearing the demon like a fifty kilo scarf.

The angel leaned down and stroked the serpent's head. "Crowley? Wake up, dearest."

With a hiss and a snort, the demon simultaneously snapped back into consciousness and humanoid form, whacking his head on the underside of the desk in the process.

"Ow! What the fuck, Angel!?" he growled.

"Sorry, dear." Clearly the demon was still a bit jumpy. "We have visitors."

"Nnggh." Crowley peered out from under the desk. "Book girl? What are you doing here?"

The demon looked rough. He was thinner and paler than usual, Anathema thought, and there were bandages sticking out from under his cuffs. "Glad you're back. I'm here to...consult, I suppose."

"Consult?" Crowley gave Aziraphale a look. "And you said _visitors_. Plural."

The angel cleared his throat. "Yes, well, there is one more person I'm hoping will show up. Why don't you come out from under there, and I'll tell you all about it?"

~~~

It had been cold outside the deconsecrated church, prompting Constantine to not just turn up the collar of his trench coat, but to actually button it for once. He cupped his hands around a cigarette to light it.

_Now then, John_ , he had thought to himself as he took a puff, _what have we learned? Well, for starters, that it's a lot harder to summon a demon if hell doesn't want to let them leave. But it can be done. Also some demons apparently spend most of their time on earth. Wonder if that goes for all those that are traditionally easy to summon, or if they're just itching to help a human do something stupid._

Then he'd noticed a statue that had fallen over in front of a broken window. By stepping up on it he could just peek through into the old sanctuary. The demon was still crouched on the floor, embracing the angel, who seemed to be comforting him. That angel - clearly there was more to him than Constantine had first guessed. Crowley had joked about having a guardian angel on their first meeting, and Aziraphale had indeed been rather terrifying and protective. But the way that sword had lit up...that wasn't part of the spell, that was just _him_ , some trace of power that had not been fully extinguished.

_A Guardian by nature as well as inclination, I'd wager._

Constantine's eye had fallen on the offerings. A nice scotch, and the branch of an apple tree kept fresh in a coke bottle of water.

_The sigil of a first-generation Fallen. True form: snake. And a personal affinity for apple trees. Oh. Fuck._ The sorcerer stepped down carefully and leaned against the old stone wall. _Hullo, John. What did you do today? Oh, nothing much. Just rescued the bleedin' Serpent of Eden from the pits of hell. Why'd you do that, John? Well, we owe him for saving the world, apparently. Also, his annoyingly persistent angel boyfriend, who is apparently some former high-level Guardian, insisted._ Constantine had grimaced and tossed away his cigarette butt. _Strewth, how is it more info just makes this whole situation more bananas?_

Back at Constantine's place, Chaz had helped him drink the bottle of scotch. The angel had been too distracted to notice it had been chucked in the bag with the other equipment. Constantine figured it should count as part of his payment. He'd spent another hour or so alone, contemplating the apple blossoms, which were now looking rather bruised.

_Wondering what favors you can con out of an angel and a demon, now that they both owe you?_ The voice in his ear was familiar, though it had none of the warmth it had once held. Constantine imagined that if he turned his head, he'd see Emma's high-cheekboned face, a sardonic smile on her lips.

He shivered. "Not a con if it's a trade, is it?"

_What will you ask for, then?_ said a second voice, this one an older woman, her tone sad. _Some powerful trinket? Forbidden knowledge? The key to heaven? Or just a fix for the lungs and liver you seem so keen to destroy?_

"Haven't decided," the sorcerer grunted. "And I could do without the judgment of ghost nuns, thank you."

_And then what, once they've done you your favor?_ another voice asked. _Betray them, pull the plug on them, like you did to me?_

Constantine closed his eyes. He wished he hadn't finished the scotch so early. "Ritchie, mate, you were the one who wandered too close to the Tongues of Fire. What, I was supposed to let you come back when your body'd burned to the ground? Christ, haven't you dead wankers got anything better to do than haunt me? Sod off, all of you. I'm going to bed."

Two hours later, he was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, when his phone lit up. The ID on the text message said "Crowley", but it was fairly clear that the angel must still have the demon's phone:

_My dear chap. Hate to ask more of you, but could you come by bookshop tomorrow 11 am? Am calling other human friend versed in magic for a 'council of war', if you will. Best wishes, and thank you again._

Constantine grunted, and put down the phone. "Council of war", eh? Intriguing. As was the mention of "another human friend versed in magic".

_You're just going to let the favors keep piling up, aren't you John?_ the most cynical voice in his head - his own - whispered scornfully. _Why? Curiosity is one thing, but being some fussy angel's errand boy..._

Constantine sighed, but he knew he was going to go all the same.

The bell didn't ring as Constantine stepped inside the bookshop. While he wasn't averse to a good showy entrance, sidling in quietly could sometimes yield useful information. The varied magical elements dazzled his senses as they had the first time. Perhaps the traces of ethereal and occult miracles had faded a bit, but the buzzing of the books was as loud as ever. Constantine itched to leaf through them. Who knew what useful secrets might be lurking in an angel's personal collection? As his eye fell on the four gilded compass points in the rotunda, he smiled.

"Casing the joint, conjurer?" a voice hissed at his elbow.

Constantine turned. The demon leaned against the wall by the door. The posture suggested he was trying to mask exhaustion in the guise of cool indifference.

"Hullo, me old snake. Well, I had been thinking of asking at some point how you two met, but..." He pointed at the large gold 'E' over the quarter of the shop where Aziraphale's desk sat, and where the angel was currently chatting to a dark haired young woman. "I guess that's kind of obvious, innit?"

Crowley's snake eyes glared over the top of his glasses. "I swear to Sssomeone, mortal, if you ssstart telling tales..."

"What, about how the serpent of Eden and the guardian of its eastern gate are shacked up together in a London bookshop?" Constantine chuckled. "I've been in the loony bin once already, mate. I'm not keen on going back."

Aziraphale finally noticed Constantine standing by the doorway, and paused in his conversation to wave at him. "So glad you could make it, dear chap! Now that we're all here, why don't we go to the back for some tea and I'll explain everything."

Constantine nudged Crowley in the ribs. "Who's the bird in the sexy schoolmarm getup?"

The demon gave him a look. "Don't. Just...don't."

The sorcerer ignored him, and sauntered up to the dark-haired young woman in the vaguely Victorian-looking dress. He gave her a crooked smile. "Hullo, luv. My name's John Constantine."

"Anathema."

Constantine raised an eyebrow. "Possibly. But there's no need to be rude 1."

Her eyes rolled behind her round glasses. "I wasn't. That's my name. Anathema Device."

Constantine gave an amused snort. "Really?"

The witch glared at the scruffy man in the trenchcoat. _Who manages to look that rumpled before lunchtime?_ "Now who's being rude?"

"Sorry, darlin'. Didn't mean to offend. But...Anathema? Were your parents into reading religious texts without a dictionary, then?"

"Something like that. Let's just go see what our host has to say, OK?"

Aziraphale had set a large teapot, four cups, and a plate of chocolate biscuits on the coffee table in the back room. He sat on the sofa, perched on the right cushion with a nervous smile. Crowley sank down on the other with a groan that he probably hoped conveyed "let's get this over with" but which really just sounded like all his bones hurt. That left the two antique chairs for the humans.

Anathema settled her skirts around her. Aziraphale offered to pour the tea. As he did, the witch snuck a glance at the stranger, who was currently shoving a biscuit in his mouth. This John Constantine must be Aziraphale's mysterious demon-summoning assistant. Anathema switched on her Sight for a moment, and then wished she hadn't. Aziraphale and Crowley's auras were _almost_ normal, for them. Both were bigger and brighter than the average human's. To her Sight Crowley's was red with black edging, while Aziraphale's was a sort of silvery yellow 2. But the red had taken on a darker, muddier tone suggesting anger and fear, and the silver was pulsing in an agitated manner. As for the trenchcoated man, he had the most eye-bleeding aura she'd ever seen on a human. The base was mostly red, like Crowley's, with a penumbra of violet. That made sense, for a magic user; her grandmother had said that Anathema's own aura was green and purple. But over the top there were flashes of murky pink, forest green, and black that swirled around like a kaleidoscope, with a haze of grey overlaying it all.

Constantine cocked his head, noticing her furrowed brow. "What? Have I got something on my face?"

"Urgh. Nothing," the witch lied, blinking. "Just...I think I might have a migraine coming on."

"Uh huh," he replied, clearly not convinced. "Look, luv, you wouldn't be here if you weren't wrapped up in some occult shenanigans with this pair. So did you just have a vision, or what?"

"Not just now," she replied honestly.

Constantine smiled. "Mmm. But you _do_ have visions, then? Interesting..."

"For the record," Crowley interrupted, folding his arms over his chest, "I don't see why the humans are here at all."

Aziraphale sipped his tea. "Don't be rude, dear. They did help rescue you."

"And I appreciate that, but it would be wiser not to involve them further."

"Involve us in what, exactly?" Anathema inquired.

Crowley grimaced. "Well, it would be stupid to assume that just because you lot managed to yank me back home that the forces of hell are just going to give up."

"And not just hell," Aziraphale added in an indignant tone. "I've been getting _very_ mixed messages from heaven. The Archangel Michael is definitely involved, though I can't be sure about the rest."

"Yeah, exactly. So you probably don't want to go drawing their attention any more than you already have."

Anathema coughed. "It might be a bit late for that."

The demon frowned. "What do you mean?"

"After you got kidnapped, I _might_ have sent a very angry prayer in the direction of certain archangels. And it _might_ have reminded them of the whole Apocawhoops situation."

"Oh, Lord," Aziraphale sighed.

"I was already on both sides' shit lists," Constantine reminded them. He seemed to be enjoying this immensely.

"Yeah. I know," Crowley snapped. "In your case, I wasn't worried _for_ you. I was worried _about_ _you_ getting any more information."

The sorcerer sipped his tea. "You wound me, old mate. Would it help if I promised not to use it against _you_?"

"No, not really. If I trusted you, you wouldn't have to promise."

"Shall we get back on topic?" Aziraphale interjected. "As our friends point out, they are already involved. Right? Good. So, the question is...what now?"

"Well, for starters, you oughta get out of town for a bit," Constantine remarked. "Sorry, me old snake, but it's a miracle your mates haven't found this place yet."

"Yes, it is," Aziraphale sighed. "Not one I can refresh anymore, unfortunately. What are you doing, my dear?"

This was directed to Anathema, who was tapping away on a tablet device of some kind. "Booking you a place away from here," she replied.

"You don't have to do that. We are perfectly capable of making arrangements..."

"Nah, she's right, mate," Constantine interrupted. "Best not to have any link to your names or bank accounts or whatnot."

"Hell's not above using human agents," Crowley agreed. "But we can't just hide under a rock. We need to fix this." His voice almost cracked on the last sentence, and he was glad of the dark glasses that hid his eyes from the humans. He'd done his best to fix things already, and look where that had gotten him. He was out of ideas, and that was terrifying.

Whether the humans noticed that last emotion or not, Aziraphale could hear it in the demon's voice. He took Crowley's hand. "We will, my dear. I'll bring along books so we can do some research. We'll figure something out." The thought of books led the angel to glance around his shop ruefully. "It's a shame to have to close this up for who knows how long. Just when I was getting used to encouraging customers instead of shooing them away, too! But I suppose needs must."

"Why not leave it open?" Constantine asked. "I'll look after it for you."

Crowley glared at him suspiciously. "Absolutely not."

Aziraphale had learned about the sorcerer's own collection of old and magical books, which made him more comfortable having Constantine in his shop, but he still didn't look entirely comfortable with the idea of leaving him in charge. "I appreciate the offer, dear fellow, but there's no need to trouble yourself."

"Not a problem, mate," Constantine said brightly. "You can't carry _all_ the books with you, can you? I could help with research. And those plants - they'll need watering, won't they?"

"They wouldn't dare wilt," the demon growled.

"So you say, but who knows how long you might be gone? And if any demons do come calling, who would you rather they run into? Me, or the sweet old lady from the coffeeshop across the way?"

The angel and the demon looked at each other.

_Well?_ Aziraphale's eyebrows inquired.

_You cannot be serious_ , Crowley's grinding jaw replied.

Aziraphale shrugged, and his eyes twinkled slightly. _He makes good points. A pupil of yours, whether he knows it or not._ Out loud, he said: "Well...I suppose that would be a reasonable plan. But I _must_ show you the organization system - most of them aren't for sale, you see - and you _must_ promise to wear gloves."

Crowley sighed elaborately. "Fine, then. But you _don't_ go upstairs, you don't smoke inside, and you don't actively try to summon any demons."

Constantine shrugged. "Yeah, all right."

"I can drop by a few days a week to keep an eye on him and help out with the research," Anathema suggested.

"An excellent thought, dear girl," Aziraphale replied, brightening visibly. "Right, that's settled then. My dear, why don't you help Crowley pick up the Bentley, while I stay here to introduce the books to Mr. Constantine and get started on the packing?"

"Of course," Anathema replied, "I'll just get this stuff cleared up and then we can be on our way."

As she whisked the teapot and a stack of cups off to the kitchen, Crowley leaned over. "Angel, why are you sending the witch with me to pick up my own car?"

_Because if you have a panic attack once you're out of my sight, I don't want you to be alone,_ Aziraphale thought. What he _said_ , quite cheerfully, was: "Oh, well, it's been a while since you two had a chat. She can tell you all about Adam's play. And she's showing some of her...ancestral talent. She doesn't talk about it much to me. Probably afraid I'll pressure her to write a book of prophecies herself. But maybe she'd open up to you."

Crowley gave him a thoughtful look that suggested he'd picked up on the other half of the angel's real reason: _If there is any danger about, maybe she can spot it ahead of time._ "Hmm. I don't know, Angel. I don't like leaving you here. Maybe we ought to stick together."

"I shall be perfectly all right here with Mr. Constantine," Aziraphale replied firmly. "This is _my_ territory, and he clearly has a few tricks up his sleeve when it comes to demons."

Galling as that was, Crowley had to agree it was an accurate assessment.

~~~

The bus ride down to Brixton was all right. Anathema mostly let Crowley ride in silence, only breaking in, when he started to look bored or overly pensive, to distract him with a story or video of the exploits of Adam and the Them. The drive back, on the other hand... Even taking the car down to the garage, Crowley had had to adjust his driving habits. You really _can't_ go 90 miles an hour in central London without a few miracles. And safely transporting a mortal required slowing down even further. It was agonizing, and not only because old habits are hard to break. Every minute that kept him from Aziraphale might be the moment when something terrible happened. Every...

"Crowley," the witch said.

The demon snapped out of his treadmill of worry for a moment. "Hnng? Yeah?"

"I... Look, it's not really my place to say. But. Be nice to Aziraphale, OK?"

"Ngg. Wh. I'm n. I'm _always_ nice to Aziraphale!" Crowley protested.

"You always _do_ nice _things_ for Aziraphale," Anathema corrected. "And, based on what I've seen, the fond stories you've told about each other, I'm guessing you've gotten a lot better at voicing the feelings behind that. But...oh, what am I trying to say?" She stared at the roof of the car for a moment. "Look, you saw how Aziraphale called us all together today, how he's working really hard to take care of you, and to find a solution that will keep you both safe. Yeah?"

Crowley swallowed. "Yeah."

"Well, when you were gone it was the same thing. Only..." Anathema sighed. "I'm not sure how much of this he's shown to you, because I suspect he's trying to be a tower of strength or whatever. But when you were gone he was a _wreck_. He _flew_ to Tadfield because he was so upset he forgot trains were a thing. But he didn't stop. He kept on, just like he's doing now. He would have done whatever it took to get you back."

Crowley didn't quite know what to say to that. He went with: "So would I!"

Anathema rolled her eyes. "I _know_ , Crowley. I Saw what happened!" Noticing his startled look, she added: "Not...what happened Down There. I only got a glimpse in the scrying bowl that told me you were hurting. I know about your meeting with Michael and how that...turned out. You don't need to protest that you'd take on any risk for Aziraphale. I _know_. _He_ knows. What I'm trying to say is: _Listen_ to him. You're just as important to him as he is to you. He just...shows it differently."

Crowley stared out at the road. Aziraphale _had_ said something like that last night, hadn't he? That he knew Crowley would die for him, but he didn't want him to. Anathema was right - that was a hard idea to accept. Not that Aziraphale cared about him, of course. He knew _that_. But after millennia of dealing with his own overwhelming love in secret, accepting whatever scraps of affection plausible deniability would allow, he still couldn't quite believe that the angel felt the same way. How could he? For Crowley, Aziraphale had been the only consistent bright spot in his life since the Fall. He was a demon, one of the damned. _It's not so bad once you get used to it._ But he hadn't got used to it, had he? He'd just built himself another paradise, centering all his hope and love and devotion on one other being. Aziraphale didn't have to do that. He was an angel, and one of the best at that. Sure, his bosses had never appreciated him. But he loved everything, and anyone with any sense would love him. He loved Crowley, but surely he didn't _need_ him, not in the same way. Of course, on some level Crowley knew that was a bad assumption. Hadn't the angel confirmed his suspicion that the whole century-long argument over the holy water he'd requested had been because Aziraphale hadn't wanted Crowley to deliberately or accidentally extinguish himself? Still, 'I don't want you to die', or 'I don't want to be responsible for your death' isn't quite the same thing as 'I couldn't bear to live without you', is it? Then again, hadn't Aziraphale _almost_ said the latter last night too? Well, he'd said he didn't want to face eternity _on earth_ alone. But whose fault was it that that was his only option now, eh? And...

"Crowley?"

"Huh? Oh. Yeah. Thanks, book girl. I'll...think about that."

~~~

Back at the bookshop, Constantine watched bemusedly as Aziraphale filled two ancient tartan-print suitcases. Mostly with books.

"Let's see...Ah, 'The Munich Manual of Demonic Magic'. That might be useful. 'The Testament of Solomon', of course. Hmm." The angel stared at the shelves. "Ah! Would you mind grabbing a couple of Agatha Christies, 'the Scarlet Pimpernel', and 'The Man Who Was Thursday' please? Third row over from here." While Constantine's back was turned, he pulled 'The Book of Soyga' off one of the shelves and tucked it under his stack. Best not to leave _that_ one behind.

"You're hoping to find the clue to foiling heaven and hell in some old spy and detective novels?" the sorcerer asked, plucking the requested books off the shelves.

"Not really. Those are for Crowley."

Constantine gave the angel a curious look as he deposited the books in the second case. "Oh? Didn't take him for a reader."

"It's an impression he likes to cultivate, for some reason." Aziraphale was hoping to distract Crowley from their predicament at least a bit. The demon's recent experiences had clearly been psychologically scarring, and it couldn't be good for him to be focused on their current predicament 24/7. Granted, in this case these particular genres might not be ideal in terms of escaping reality, but Crowley _had_ shown a taste for them in cinematic form. "Now, what am I forgetting?"

"Er...everything _other_ than books?"

Constantine had been introduced to 'just enough of a bastard' Aziraphale, 'terrifying avenging angel' Aziraphale, and even 'anxious mother hen' Aziraphale. Today, though, he saw something new. The angel hadn't lost his purposeful air, but as he bustled about it was clear the anxiety had been dialed way back and replaced by a strangely infectious cheeriness and enthusiasm. When he said things like: "Oh, I nearly forgot the toothbrushes. Just go and fetch them - there's a good chap," the jaded conjurer found himself doing exactly as the angel asked with a minimum of snark. As he attempted to squeeze a week's worth of clothes into the top inch of each suitcase not occupied by books without rumpling them, Aziraphale resembled an absent-minded Oxford don preparing for his summer holidays more than an ethereal being on the run from the forces of hell.

Eventually, after Aziraphale wrestled the suitcases into submission, popped down to the winecellar, and re-emerged, Constantine remarked: "Don't take this the wrong way, mate. But...you seem awfully chuffed for someone with the devil on their tail."

"Eh?" Aziraphale frowned at him. "I assure you, I'm taking this very seriously."

"Last week you were twanging like a guitar string. I thought you were going to cry on me at least four times. Now you look like you're gearing up for a weekend boozer." He nodded at the armful of bottles the angel was carrying.

"Ah." Aziraphale considered this. "Well, I suppose it's just a return to form, really. We spent the past eleven years thwarting heaven and hell's schemes together, and considerably more than that lying to them. Now that we're properly on our own side and...and Crowley's back," the angel's smile wavered just a moment before returning to its former brightness, "I'm sure we can do it again."

_On our own side._ Constantine had heard Crowley use that phrase, too. He was no stranger to the general sentiment, but his had always been a side of one. Or it should be. He always broke down and tried to make connections, and then people died. Constantine had always kept those who were most important - like Chaz, or his sister Cheryl - at some distance from the absurd enterprise of thumbing one's nose at heaven and hell alike. And even that didn't entirely work. What would it be like to have someone at your side who was unlikely to die except in extremely specific circumstances, a being of equal (though sometimes opposite) powers that you trusted implicitly? Then again, what would it be like to have that and lose it? No wonder the angel had been a frantic mess earlier.

~~~

Crowley parked in his usual spot and opened the door for Anathema. However, before she could step into the bookshop the demon flung out an arm and stopped her. "Angel!" he shouted.

Aziraphale appeared from behind a bookshelf. "Yes, dear?"

Crowley pointed to the elaborate pattern of runes and symbols where the entry mat used to be. "What the fuck is _this_ on our floor?"

" _Language_ , dear. It's a security system. Don't worry, it's not armed yet."

The demon winced slightly as he stepped over the...whatever it was. It was more an occult rectangle than a magic circle, but it still reminded him uncomfortably of Michael's trap door trick.

He spotted the blonde wizard. "I take it this is your doing?"

Constantine smirked at him. "'Course. Can't have any other demons free to rampage about in your bookish little love nest, now can we?"

The scruffy sorcerer already looked to be making himself at home. He was sunk deep in an armchair - _Aziraphale's_ armchair - flipping through a book whose title translated to: 'The Art of Drawing Spirits into Crystals'. Wearing gloves, which seemed like a minor miracle in itself.

"This thing is complete bollocks, you know," he remarked in Aziraphale's direction.

"Yes, I'm aware. Trithemius got things quite garbled. But it is rather amusing, don't you think?"

"Yeah, though not nearly as funny as the _Malleus Maleficarum_. There's a knee-slapper."

"If you ignore how people actually _used_ it," Anathema said coldly.

Constantine gave her an appraising look over the edge of his book.

"If you ask me how many nipples I have, I _will_ slap you."

"Take it easy luv. It's not like old Kramer and Sprenger wouldn't have tried to set me on fire too. But, come on...it's a _bit_ funny how they thought things worked, innit? I mean, I'm assuming you don't keep a box of stolen pricks that move around and eat oats like they were a bunch of pet gerbils, do you?"

Anathema raised an eyebrow. "If women _could_ do that, I imagine there'd be at least twice as many dickless wonders whining about us on reddit as there are now."

Constantine's grin looked like it was about to crack his face in half. "Oh, I _like_ you. How did you say you got mixed up with this pair, again?"

"I didn't say. But...converging paths, literally. We were all trying to track down the antichrist when these two idiots ran me over."

Crowley, who had been preparing to load the suitcases in the Bentley, whirled around. "Hey! _You_ hit _me_ with that bloody deathtrap of a bike."

"Don't talk about Phaeton that way. And _then_ you stole my _book_."

" _You_ left it in the car. _He_ stole it," the demon corrected, nodding at the angel. "I had nothing to do with it. As for the bike with the silly name, if you hadn't pointed out the excessive apologetic miracling you could have kept the new pump and the extra gears."

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. "Like I said, I got carried away. They _normally_ have gears these days."

"You noticed _that_ but you _hadn't_ noticed that no one calls them 'velocipedes'?"

There was no real heat on any side, Constantine noticed. It was clearly one of those running arguments that friends or couples develop that is brought out more for entertainment than because anyone hopes to win it.

" _Anyway_ , we ought to be going," Crowley said, cutting it off. "Angel, did you get those directions?"

"Texting them to you now," Anathema said.

"Right, thanks."

"Oh, that reminds me, my dear," Aziraphale said. "I was going to suggest we all stay in touch by phone. Or perhaps...what is it called...Skip?"

Crowley blinked. It took him a moment to banish the absurd mental image that had just formed and figure out what the angel was trying to say. "You mean 'Skype'?"

"Yes, whatever the thing is where you can see each other on video. I wanted to check if that would be safe or if there might be...interference."

"Ah. Yeah, should be all right."

Aziraphale brightened. "Oh, good. I was hoping I wasn't doing the wrong thing texting everyone. I mean, when Dagon started talking to us through the radio after that disaster of a birthday party 3..."

"Nah. One - Most demons are rubbish with technology. I was the one who taught them how to do the thing with the radios and TVs. Bit of a misstep there, in retrospect. But seeing as we were already calling each other up all the time I didn't teach them how to hack phones. Two - Just in case they figured it out, I put a hex on your landline, my cell, and my laptop that ought to block them. Actually, back before this whole mess I made sure to break their connection to the Bentley's radio, too."

The angel clapped his hands decisively. "Perfect! So perhaps we should plan on reconnecting tomorrow afternoon, then. Once we've had time to do a bit of research?"

"Works for me, mate," Constantine replied.

"I'll have to head back to Tadfield, though. I promised to..." Anathema paused and glanced at Constantine 4. "I have an appointment. But I'll let you know if I See anything useful. And I'll be back to check on this one the day after."

Constantine's mouth quirked. "Don't trust me, darlin'?"

The witch considered this. "Hmm. You're a walking ashtray tasked with looking after an antique bookshop, with a punchable smirk and a seriously janky aura. You think the world's most notorious witchhunting manual is funny. And you keep calling me 'darlin' and 'luv'. On the other hand, you did help rescue one of my friends from hell. So let's go with...you might not be as untrustworthy as you seem, but I'm reserving judgment."

Aziraphale beamed at the scruffy sorcerer. "Oh, I'm sure we can count on you, dear chap. You've done so much already, and I hope you know how much I appreciate it." He turned to Anathema. "Can we drop you at the station, my dear?"

As the angel and the witch made their way to the car, Crowley noticed the look on Constantine's face. It was rather familiar.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" he remarked quietly.

"Eh?"

"Having someone like _that_ not only _like_ but _trust_ your irredeemable self." He lowered his glasses just enough to fix Constantine with a golden stare. "Let's not bollix it up, hmm?"

1\. Anathema": something that is detested or shunned. Back

2\. The black and silver tones seemed to come standard for demons and angels, as far as Anathema could tell from her experience at the airbase, but the other colors reflected personality as channeled through their human-ish bodies. According to 'How to read auras', her favorite reference on the subject: "Red aura people are enthusiastic and energetic and bad at taking orders. They are quick to anger but generous with their time and energy when called upon for help. The mantra of the Red aura individual is 'I’ll try anything once.' Yellow aura people are analytical and very intelligent, and may have unusual interests and hobbies. They can be workaholics, and may be overly critical of themselves and others. They are happy in their own company, but can also be quite inspiring to other people. They choose their few friends carefully, and these tend to match their wit and intellect."Back

3\. Constantine added "Demons hijacking radios" alongside "Antichrist/non-apocalypse" and "What book would an (actually nice) angel steal from a (not evil) witch?" on his mental "To investigate later" list. Back

4\. Whose ears pricked up at the name of the village he'd been heading for on the day of the "Apocawhoops" (as his new acquaintances seemed to be calling it)...until the M25 had caught fire in front of him. He added "Anathema - Tadfield" to his mental list and drew a line to "Antichrist/not-apocalypse".Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing this story last year, not realizing it would become a COVID-free alternate timeline for Feb-June 2020. And yet there is going to be a lot of remote communication (via video-chat, scrying, etc.) from this point on, while our protagonists are basically holed up in a safe house by themselves. Go figure.
> 
> In looking up auras, it amused me that the descriptions for red and yellow were so spot on.  
> Purple is supposedly indicative of magical/psychic ability. In other respects, though, Anathema sounds like a green-aura person: Down-to-earth perfectionists who seldom make rash decisions. Treat close friends with loyalty, generosity, and practical advice. Health conscious and in tune with nature.  
> Constantine was tricky as, while his base personality is similar to Crowley's in a lot of ways - confident, passionate, impulsive - he is also REALLY messed up (yes, even compared to a demon). As Madame Tracy knows, the trick with playing psychic is telling people what they want to hear, so guides to auras tend include very little that is clearly negative. The few suggestions that came up were:  
> Murky pink - immature or dishonest nature.  
> Forest green - guilt or self-recrimination.  
> Black - long-term unforgiveness.  
> Grey - guardedness.
> 
> Incidentally, I've never been sure if the ghosts that follow Constantine around are meant to be actual spirits or just the manifestations of his own guilty conscience. The ones who make an appearance here are Emma, an artist and former girlfriend, Sister Anna Marie, a former member of the "Newcastle crew" that was there at his first ill-advised demon summoning who later became a nun, and Ritchie Simpson, another Newcastle crew member and techno-magician. The first two were killed by demons, while Ritchie got stuck inside a computer.


	7. Safe spaces

As they pulled away from the train station and set out southwest, Crowley pushed "play" on the stereo system. He didn't check to see what CD was in the slot; it wasn't as if it ever mattered.

_Keep yourself alive_

_Keep yourself alive_

_It'll take you all your time and money_

_Honey, you'll survive_

The demon gave a crooked smile, and patted the steering wheel. "Thanks, old girl. Working on it."

"Where are we going, anyway?" Aziraphale asked.

"Rental house a bit east of Winchester, Anathema said. But out in the country somewhere. Unobtrusive, hopefully."

"Oh, that sounds lovely!"

Crowley gave him a look. "Angel, please try to keep in mind that it's a safe house, not a...a holiday bungalow, all right?"

Still, despite himself, Crowley relaxed a bit as they hit the A3. This felt right. Sensing the angel's warmth and solidity in the passenger seat without even having to look 1. Seeing the open sky above, and the scenery unfolding to either side almost as if he was flying. Pressing down on the accelerator and feeling the familiar rumble of the engine even when it wasn't audible over the music. At the moment, this was 'Under Pressure': a song that acknowledged the anxieties of life, and yet was somehow hopeful. The Bentley knew her stuff. Crowley sighed. Sure, "run away to the country and figure out the rest later" wasn't _much_ of a plan. But he supposed it would do for the moment.

The "not a holiday bungalow" stance was a bit harder to maintain once they actually pulled up in front of the place. The house was a petite one-story thing with a green door that looked like it had been put together by a drunk bricklayer - the lines of masonry wobbled about and none of the windows were the same size. It sat in a cottage garden exploding with roses, hollyhocks, and poppies, surrounded by an overgrown hedge. And by the gate...

"Oh no. Does that say 'Shangri-la'?" the demon groaned.

"It appears so."

"Uggh, gag me."

"The garden is pretty, though," Aziraphale pointed out.

Crowley paused in unloading the suitcases to take another look. He shrugged. "Yeah. Could do with a bit of discipline, mind you. Those hedges are a disgrace."

The demon insisted on going inside first and sniffing about, just in case. Aziraphale, in turn, insisted on being no more than five steps behind him. But there was no trace of demons, just an incredible abundance of floral patterns. There were daisies on the curtains of the rustic kitchen, giant roses on the large and comfortable-looking sofa in the living room, and a quilt on the bed that was a hodgepodge of different designs all featuring vegetation of some sort.

Crowley had to admit it seemed safe. "A bit over-the-top on the grandma's-cottage sweetness, but safe."

Aziraphale nodded. "Mmm. Still, we might want to take some precautions to keep it that way. If you'll unpack, I'll take care of the warding."

Wards, fortunately, did not require miracles to draw. Aziraphale began meticulously chalking the same set of symbols on every door and window frame.

"You didn't just lock me in here, did you?" Crowley teased, as the angel started in on the last one.

"Of course not! They never stopped you coming in or out of the bookshop, did they?"

"I know, but you've been talking to Constantine a lot and might have picked up some tips. Humans can get a bit over-zealous on the demon repelling charms, sometimes." He considered that thought. "Well...appropriately zealous in most cases, actually. But you know what I mean."

"Repelling of hostile intent only, my dear. I promise."

Aziraphale turned around. "Oh, I forgot to ask...was I meant to do something with the Bentley?"

The demon's brow wrinkled. "Huh?"

"Well, when I first started looking for you I went to the garage and was surprised to find they were expecting me. But I wasn't sure if that was part of the plan."

Crowley still looked confused. "What plan?"

"The plan to help me rescue you," Aziraphale said patiently. "When I saw you'd left your phone I knew you were sending me a message. Apart from the Bentley helping me boost the distance over which I could sense you, I couldn't figure out how she fit in. I just did things my own way, and that worked out, fortunately. But I'm still curious. And, really, you _might_ have been just a smidge less cryptic about it all."

Then Aziraphale noticed the demon's uncomfortable expression, and his grey eyes narrowed. "Wait. You _weren't_ leaving me coded 'come save me' messages, were you?"

"Uhh..." The guilty tone of that noise was as good as a confession.

The angel seized Crowley's lapels. "Those notes on the phone, making sure the garage knew who I was... You were...That was your idea of writing a will, wasn't it?" he demanded.

"Are you seriously mad at me for trying to make sure you'd be all right if something happened to me?" the demon protested.

"Arrgh, of all the... I would _not_ have been 'all right', you blasted serpent! Do you think any material thing could possibly make up for losing you?"

Aziraphale sank down on the sofa and buried his face in his hands.

The reasonable reply, of course, would have been something like: "Of course not, but that's what thoughtful mortals do, don't they? They try to make sure their loved ones don't have to worry about other stuff while they're grieving. And since we're living like mortals, more or less..."

But the demon said nothing, and after a moment Aziraphale looked up. Crowley was staring at the carpet with an odd expression.

"Oh. Oh, my dear. Come here." Aziraphale held out a hand. After a moment Crowley took it, and allowed the angel to pull him down gently to sit on the sofa beside him.

"I'm so sorry. I'm not angry at you for trying to look after me. Of course not. It's just... well, I have a lot of distancing to make up for," the angel sighed. "When I found that phone I thought it meant you'd realized that I'd always come for you."

Crowley's brows crinkled. "Why would I invite you to risk yourself? Without your powers..."

"To help me be clever about it? Since I'd do it anyway?"

"You're always clever, Angel." He leaned his head against Aziraphale's shoulder and took off his glasses. His golden eyes were melancholy.

"Clever enough to ask for help, anyway. You could stand to learn a bit about that, my dear." Aziraphale sighed. "I know. How _can_ you trust me when less than a year ago I panicked in a moment of crisis and tried to claim we weren't even friends?"

Crowley clutched his hand, and shook his head vehemently. "Wh...No, Angel! I know you didn't mean that, and you've more than made up for it since. I _do_ know you care. Deep down, I know." He sighed. "But...well, I keep thinking you shouldn't, that you really would be better off without me. Not because your doppelganger said it. The reason that hurt so bad was that it was what I've kept saying to myself...well, forever."

Aziraphale wrapped his arms around the demon. "My dear, how can you think that?"

Crowley shifted too, curling up on the rest of the sofa and burying his face in Aziraphale's chest. "Because I brought danger to you, Angel. For so long I was afraid that if anyone found out I was hanging around that you'd be punished."

"Well, likewise. I was always worried that if your...if hell found out we were friends, that you'd done blessings for me, that you actually _liked_ humans, they would destroy you. That's most of the reason I tended to argue and resist whenever you proposed some new scheme. You know that."

Crowley swallowed hard. "Yes, but for centuries I thought...what if you Fell? I couldn't have done that to you. It's not just the first bit, the burning and whatnot, you know. That hurts like a bitch; Not saying it doesn't. But...being stuck working with horrible people like Hastur and Belial and the rest, being basically forbidden to love things, forced to cause harm and spread misfortune and curses instead of blessings? That's...well, it was bad enough for me, and I was always a _little_ bit of a trouble-maker at heart. You, well, you couldn't be _you_ at all. And you'd be under that same threat, if you slipped up and did something _nice_... No. It wouldn't do, Angel. But I couldn't stay away, either. Uggh, and what kind of a selfish beast does that make me?"

"Oh, Crowley. You never hurt me, and you know I didn't want you to stay away! Even when I pretended to, I could see you knew I was lying. If you want to talk about selfishness...how was it right of me to string you along like that?"

"Never hurt you?" Crowley sounded incredulous. "But what about right now? You can't go back to heaven, you've lost your powers, and you're breaking your heart and gearing up to fight hell over some wreck of a demon who'll never be worthy of you!"

"My dear, you _are_ worthy. None of this is your fault. _I_ chose to talk to you on that wall and a million times after, _I_ agreed to The Arrangement, _I_ chose to side with you to try to save the earth and everything it meant to us. And I don't regret a bit of it. I love you. I've always loved you, even when I refused to admit it to myself."

Crowley just made some wordless despairing noise and shook his head. His fingers clutched at Aziraphale's jacket, but he refused to look him in the eye. It was painful to see him in this state, wrapped up in a hell of his own making. Aziraphale took a deep breath. Stroking the demon's hair gently, he began running through his litany of love. As the gentle glow surrounded him, Crowley began to relax. His fingers unclenched, his jaw stopped grinding, his breathing slowed. Eventually, the last of the tension drained out of him in a shuddering sigh.

The angel kissed his brow gently. "Better?"

"Hmm." One yellow eye cracked open. "How do you do that, anyway?"

Aziraphale stroked a wayward auburn curl back into place. "What, my dear?"

" _That._ Thought you couldn't do any miracles. But I was feeling awful and now... It's like you melted out all the bad thoughts and wrapped me up in...in fluffy quilts made out of moonbeams or something."

"Ah." The angel blushed. "I just...think of all the reasons I'm fond of you, and sort of... project that outward, I suppose."

"Huh. Powerful stuff, this fondness." Was there a hint of the demon's old mocking tone in that? Aziraphale hoped so.

"So it would seem."

"Just out of curiosity," Crowley said slowly, "What's on that list?"

Aziraphale smiled. "Are you saying I should fully elaborate on why you are not only a little bit good deep down but actually a rather nice person?"

"I suppose," Crowley conceded cautiously. "I mean, it's not like I should give a damn about being a proper demon anymore, right?"

"Quite right. Well, then..."

Aziraphale recited his list, including rather more details than he had needed to in his head, where the memories came wordless and unbidden2. Crowley squirmed a bit, clearly fighting the habit of protesting such praise. He didn't say anything, though. By the time the angel had finished, the demon was almost crimson with embarrassment.

"Did I miss anything?"

"Unnngh..." Crowley coughed. "Well, I did notice you didn't mention my dashing good looks."

"Not for lack of appreciation, my dear. But I was trying for soothing, and I worried that if I started adding in _those_ sorts of thoughts we might have an Urban Oyster situation on our hands."

The Urban Oyster was a restaurant the pair had tried about four months earlier. The service had been ridiculously slow. Just as Crowley had been considering either risking a demonic miracle or storming out, he had become aware of a sensation similar to a leg brushing up against his under the table - if that limb had been able to reach his incorporeal self and stroke not only his calf but all the way up to his neck. The demon glanced over at Aziraphale, ankles crossed under his chair, hands folded innocently in front of him, with just the slightest twinkle in his eye. "What are you doing, Angel?"

"Oh, just...experimenting. Waiting was getting rather dull. And now that _this_ , and my wings, are the closest things I have to magic, it would be good to be sure of my capabilities. Do you mind?"

The demon certainly did _not_ mind, although it was just as well that he had thousands of years of practice in self-control. If he hadn't, then when the waiter finally arrived with their meal he would have found Crowley twitching ecstatically on the floor rather than merely red-faced and non-verbal.

"Ngk." Crowley swallowed. "I see. Well, that was quite a successful experiment, if I recall. So I suppose if you _wanted_ to try expanding your list..."

Aziraphale considered this. He wasn't entirely sure it was a good idea. But if he could help his beloved demon to experience not just lack of pain but actual pleasure again, if it could convince him of how Aziraphale truly felt... "I suppose if you are up to it, we certainly could test out the effect."

Crowley nodded wordlessly.

"All right, then. I love your beautiful copper hair." He ran his fingers through it to illustrate, and Crowley purred slightly. "You're so creative with it; but I remember that when you had it in those long ringlets, I was always tempted to play with it. And love your eyes. Oh, I know you feel a bit odd about them, but they are just gorgeous, my dear. Like discs of amber. At first I was sad when you started wearing those glasses. But then there was that night in the 8th century - do you remember? - where you were trying to convince me of something or other and you took them off. And I realized I was probably the only being on earth who got to see those eyes. Even if it was only sometimes, when you really wanted me to see you. It made me feel quite special." Aziraphale had only just gotten started, but his light had already brightened. It seemed to be having an effect: Crowley's snake-like pupils had widened, and he leaned into Aziraphale's touch as the angel continued running his fingers through his hair. "I love your shining black wings. How sleek and swift they are, and how when the light hits them just right you can see little glints of green and purple."

The demon gave a deep, pleasurable sigh as the angel's love washed over him, and Aziraphale continued: "I love the lean and elegant shape of you, the way you always manage to look nonchalant and sexy, even when you've contorted yourself into the most ridiculous positions - like that time I went to fetch another bottle of wine and came back to find you reading my book _upside down_ , with your legs thrown over the back of the couch." The angel chuckled. "Oh, and your walk - my dear, I don't know if that was deliberately cultivated or just what happens when a snake gets legs, but the way your hips move is just temptation incarnate. The only bright spot in having to watch you walk away over and over was getting that view from the rear. Though, of course, that just made me want to run after you and never let you leave again." Crowley moaned, and said hips twitched as the glow grew brighter yet. "I love your hands, and your long clever fingers." The angel took one of his hands and traced his own fingers along it. "The way you wave them about to illustrate a point. The way they feel on my skin." The demon was writhing now, his breath coming faster as the glow lit him up from the inside. "I love your mouth. The way that wicked grin lights up your face. The way you sometimes catch the lower lip in your teeth that always made me wonder how it would feel if you...mmph!"

Crowley performed the kind of supine twist-and-pounce maneuver that had let him snatch Rosacarnis' hair pins, but with a much more pleasant objective. He captured the angel's mouth with his.

After a second of surprise Aziraphale yielded to the kiss, giving a pleased murmur as a suddenly forked tongue flicked against his. "...if you did that," he concluded, once he had a moment's breathing space. "Mmm. I thought _I_ was meant to be treating _you_."

"Oh, you are, Angel," Crowley murmured into Aziraphale's ear, in a way that made him shiver. "Just wanted to let you share the ride."

His dark energy surged over the angel like a rogue wave, and Aziraphale gasped and shuddered as it swirled around and through him, dancing with his light. "Ohh, my love. You just can't help being generous with me, can you?"

"Never."

At that the angel's love light blazed out even brighter, and the swirl of energies tightened in, almost to that place where they would merge. Almost, but not quite. They had learned to avoid the uncomfortable, potentially explosive consequences of trying to fit two opposite entities into one metaphysical space. But skirting just around that point...that yielded some very satisfying sparks indeed.

"So, my dear," Aziraphale said, after they had collapsed happily in each others arms. "Have I convinced you that you are indeed worthy?"

Crowley considered this. "Mmm. Probably not, to be honest. But..." he hastened to add, laying a finger on the angel's lips as he was about to protest, "I _am_ now thoroughly convinced that _you_ think I am. So I'm going to try to keep that in mind."

~~~

The bookshop bell tinkled. Constantine looked up from the 'Ars Notoria' he was reading to see a young man staring at him in apparent confusion.

"Oh. Is Mr. Fell not here?" The visitor had short spiky black hair and wore a discreet rainbow-pattern bracelet and a tee-shirt that read 'Housing is a right'. He carried what looked like a collection tin and a pile of pamphlets.

The sorcerer put down the book and pulled his feet off the desk. "Nah. Family emergency. I'm filling in."

The stranger frowned. "Ah, I'm sorry to hear that. We _were_ worried about him." He had a faint trace of a non-local accent - Australian, maybe?

" _We_?"

"The other Soho Community Land Trust members and me. I'm Gaz, by the way. Ezra's been coming to the meetings religiously, but he's been looking distracted and sad lately. We thought we'd see him at yesterday's protest, but he didn't turn up."

Constantine tried to picture an angel marching around with a placard. While the general concept stretched his imagination, Aziraphale's earnest, stubborn face fit right in, even if his clothes didn't. "What protest was that?"

"Outside the mayor's office. In favor of broader housing policy reform."

"Ah, yeah. I remember now. He said he's sorry he had to miss it."

"No worries. I was just in the area, taking donations and thought I'd check in."

A worried frown crossed Gaz's face. "Is it Mr. Crowley that's ill?"

"Uh...yeah. You know Crowley?"

"Course. Only in passing, but... Oh, that's a shame. They're such a cute couple. Though don't tell Anthony I said that," Gaz added, in a flirtily conspiratorial tone. "I reckon he'd say 'cute' doesn't fit his aesthetic, but that doesn't make it not true. #relationshipgoals, am I right? I hope it's nothing too serious."

Constantine pictured the other demons he'd met, and their idea of proportionate response to a slight. "Touch and go at the moment, I'm afraid."

"Oh, no! Uggh, I can't believe Ezra didn't say anything! Give them our best, will you?"

"Sure, mate. Hey, hang on a mo, will you?" Constantine plucked a £100 note out of the angel's cash box and, after a second of thought, added £20 out his own wallet. He gave Gaz a winning smile. "For the cause. From Az...Ezra and me."

Gaz beamed. "Cheers, mate! See you around?"

Constantine shrugged. "Yeah, why not?"

~~~

Crowley awoke with a snort and a flailing of limbs. He blinked in befuddlement at the sun streaming in the window through the lace curtains, and the loudly patterned quilt tangled around his legs. Where was he? How did he get here? And more importantly...

"Angel?" He tripped over the blankets in his rush to get up. He peered out the bedroom door, but the living room and the rose-print sofa were empty, though he could see several ancient-looking books spread out on the coffee table that hadn't been there before. "Angel, where are you?!" He tried to keep the panic out of his voice, but he could feel it building anyway.

"In here, dear," Aziraphale's voice called from the kitchen.

Crowley staggered in that direction. The angel was sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of tea, fussing over Crowley's laptop. He looked frustrated but otherwise fine.

"Oh, thank Someone," the demon muttered, leaning against the doorframe and catching his breath.

"Did you sleep well?" The angel inquired.

"I suppose I must have. Not sure how I got to the bedroom, though."

Aziraphale smiled at him. "I carried you. You fell asleep on the sofa."

"Oh." The angel was so soft-looking it was easy to forget how strong he really was. "What time is it?"

"Two fifteen. Almost time to check in with Mr. Constantine. Though I can't get this blasted thing to work..."

"Why didn't you wake me?"

Aziraphale's eyes were gentle. "You looked like you needed the rest."

"Yeah, probably," Crowley conceded. He did feel better. And...He checked under the bandages. His wrists were fully healed. "I'm going to need some coffee, though."

Aziraphale pointed out the coffee pot. Crowley set it up and then showed the angel how to bring up the video chat.

After four simulated rings the sorcerer's stubbled face popped up on the screen. "Hey. How's the country retreat?"

"Fine, thank you," Aziraphale replied politely. "How is the shop?"

Constantine shrugged. "Ticking along. No supernatural visitors yet. Don't know that I'm much good with the usual sort - don't have your knowledge of normal literature. But I did manage to shoo off a few who'd wandered into the back shelves."

"Oh, thank you, dear chap. How did you manage that?"

"Well, I started by following them around, doing the nicotine cough in their ear. That was enough to get two of them to bugger off. The third one was more persistent. I had to tell her the book was cursed."

"Cursed?"

Constantine grinned. "Yeah. Said it had come back to us three times after the previous owners died in mysterious circumstances. Then I did a bit of a trick to let her hear the buzzy, chattery sound I can hear from most of your books. She legged it pretty quick after that."

"Oh, by the way," the sorcerer added, "This bloke came by about that land trust thing you've been involved in. I _may_ have let him conclude that, uh, _Anthony_ here is in the hospital. And I gave him a donation from you. So he might mention one or both of those things."

Crowley frowned. "We didn't give you permission to hand out cash from the store."

"Ah, but the angel here would have done it anyway," Constantine said, unrepentantly. "He said you go to all their meetings. 'Religiously' was the word he used."

"Yes, that's true, I would have," Aziraphale said. "And I _did_ miss the demonstration, so it's only fair I contribute in other ways."

Constantine raised an eyebrow at him. "You know, I may have misjudged you, comrade angel. Though how you square this sort of thing with your massive hoard of expensive books and tchotchkes..."

"Well, if you're going to be making that sort of joke, you should know that Marx only called for common ownership of the means of production, not personal effects," Aziraphale replied in his most prim and academic tone. "If you want radical on _that_ point, I suggest you read the New Testament."

Crowley chuckled at Constantine's expression, which he suspected resembled his when Aziraphale had revealed his knowledge of Victorian erotica. He gave the angel a knowing look. "You've got a signed copy of 'Capital' in your collection, don't you?"

"Of course. The man was practically a neighbor3; naturally I was going to stop by. And, after all..."

The demon sighed, recognizing the teasing tone. "Yeah, yeah. I was sulking that century, and you were bored."

"Interesting fellow. Terrible at naming things, though. I _told_ him 'Dictatorship of the Proletariat' was just going to lead to misunderstandings and trouble. 'Why not call it Actual Majority Rule, or Proletocracy, or something?' I said. But did he listen?" Aziraphale shook his head. "Anyway, I don't know why you two are making such a fuss. We're setting up a rental cooperative, not starting a revolution."

Crowley grinned provokingly. "Don't sell yourself short, angel. You haven't lost your nerve just because your last attempt - OK, fine, _our_ last attempt - at that sort of thing went down in flames, have you? It was the 14th century. Nothing went right in the 14th century."

Constantine cleared his throat. "Not that I don't have a _thousand_ questions...But could we get back on topic? Seeing as you two supposedly want my help?"

Aziraphale finished glaring at Crowley, and beamed at the camera. "Of course, dear chap. Have you had any thoughts?"

Constantine's fingers twitched. This was clearly the point in the conversation where he would normally light a cigarette. But... He sighed. "Well, threat's the only language hell understands, innit? And you can't really threaten _all_ of hell. Er, _I_ can't, that is. Can you?"

The angel and the demon glanced at each other. "We...sort of found a way," Crowley replied carefully. "Something that...made both sides worry enough to leave us alone. Hoped the effect would last longer."

"Me losing my powers rather unbalanced things," Aziraphale added. "But I don't think they've seen through the trick, dear, otherwise you wouldn't still be alive."

"Mmm. Hard to say. They did say they...did what they did because it was nastier than just killing me." Crowley swallowed. His eyes, for once not covered with his customary shades, took on a distant expression for a moment as the memories welled up. He shook it off. "Anyway. Point is, even if they don't think they can kill us, they clearly don't think they think we're an offensive threat anymore."

Constantine nodded. "OK. So. The thing that's worked for me in the past is playing one faction of demons off against another. Set things up so that one of them attacking _you_ would bring them into conflict with another group, for instance."

Aziraphale frowned. "You're not suggesting an _alliance_ , are you? Normally I'm all for making new friends, but in this case... Well, we don't want to set up some kind of Great War powderkeg situation."

"Nah, mate. I'm thinking more like promising both of them the same thing so they can't both claim it. Or making one group think the other has betrayed them so that they fight each other instead of you."

"You've done this before, you say?" Aziraphale inquired.

"Sure. So...Remember what the '80s were like under Thatcher?"

Aziraphale shuddered. "Vividly."

"Well, there was a pair of demons selling upward mobility with the sucker's soul as collateral. The marks only got about six months of fast cars and blow out of it before _somehow_ their luck turned and hell came to collect. I went straight to their boss, Blathoxi, and said I wanted to get in on the deal, but I wanted my price up front in cash."

Crowley raised his eyebrows. "You what?"

Constantine shrugged. "He didn't bite. He knew me enough to figure I was pulling a con, that I'd gotten a tip Labor was going to win and the soul market would crash. So he pulled all his assets out and crashed it himself in the process. Anyway...it worked because Blathoxi didn't trust his people to tell him the truth of the situation, and then he turned on them after he'd bollixed it up all on his own. So. Any current divisions we could exploit?"

Crowley considered this. "Not sure, really. Although...I did find it a bit odd that Beelzebub seemed to be distancing zirself from the whole thing."

Aziraphale blinked. "Ze was? What do you mean?" He vividly remembered Beelzebub presiding over 'Crowley's' first trial.

"Well...ze never showed up again after handing me off to Rosacarnis. Not even to gloat. The Dukes were really the ones running the show."

"Hmm. Some difference of opinion over how to handle things, maybe?" Aziraphale suggested.

Crowley made a doubtful noise. "Beelzebub should have been able shut it all down, if ze disagreed. Maybe zir position is a bit shaky right now, post apocawhoops. Or maybe ze just couldn't be bothered. I was supposed to be there forever, after all. It's not like there was a rush." The demon's voice went a bit weird at the end of that statement - the last sentence was almost a whisper - and he shivered violently.

Aziraphale looked at him with concern. "Um. Well, we can discuss that angle a bit more later. Any other suggestions?"

Constantine shook his head. "Not particularly."

"What about...getting the angel his powers back?" Crowley spoke with some effort, clearly dragging himself out of the dark hole he'd momentarily slipped into.

The sorcerer frowned. "Hadn't gotten to that. Is that part of our goal here too?"

" _Yes_ , bless it!" the demon growled.

"All right, keep your knickers on. I'll add that to the list. Now. The angel was trying to distract me, but I reckon you'd better tell me a bit more about who or what, specifically, is likely to come after you."

~~~

"Szzo. You _lozzt_ the traitor." Beelzebub's voice was somehow more flat and toneless than usual.

"We didn't _lose_ him, my Lord," Rosacarnis objected. "Someone clearly summoned him."

"Oh, a summoning?" Hastur said sarcastically. "Someone just _decided_ to summon our prisoner? And whisked him away out of charmed manacles?"

Rosacarnis arched a perfect black brow at him. "These things happen."

"Not on my watch, they wouldn't," Hastur snarled. "You think you're so clever, with your...your little psy-ops scheme, or whatever you call it. I _told_ you we should have just skinned that snake with a rusty knife and made him eat his own liver."

Rosacarnis snorted. "I saw the look on your face when what he _thought_ you were doing had him begging and groveling. You didn't have any complaints about my plans then, did you?"

"Yeah, but I thought _this_ useless lump was supposed to be keeping an eye on him for us!" He kicked the smaller demon who cowered at their feet.

Rosacarnis's fangs grew visibly longer. "Don't pin this on _her_ , either. Not only did she mimic the angel well enough to fool the traitor for _months_ , she got the word to me about _two_ earlier escape attempts. If _you_ were so concerned about security, you should have arranged for better wards!"

"Shut up, the pair of you!" Beelzebub snapped. "After all your boazzting about finally giving the traitor what he dezzerves, our Mazzter will _not_ be pleazzed to learn of your failure."

"We have not failed yet, my Lord," said Rosacarnis, "Please - give us time to find the Serpent and return him to hell."

Beelzebub's flies buzzed irritably. "You have three weekzz. After that, I muzzt make my report."

"Of course, Lord Beelzebub," Hastur replied in an oily tone. "We will not fail."

The Lord of Hell shrugged. "For your own sakezz...szzee that you don't."

~~~

Constantine was back in the bookshop stacks when the bell rang, searching out a particular volume on summonings. The shop closed at noon on Fridays, so by 11:55 he was already looking forward to knocking off for a smoke and a bacon sandwich.

"Oi, look, we're about to..." he began, when he was interrupted by a fizzling noise and a screech.

The sorcerer poked his head around the bookshelf and smirked.

The smaller figure trapped within the glowing rectangle had, a minute ago, resembled a rather attractive goth girl: striped stockings; ruffled, form-fitting black dress; silver bat earrings; dark hair piled high in a messy updo. The effect was rather spoiled by the glowing eyes and the two inch fangs bared in a snarl. The taller one was clearly the muscle of the team and had probably never looked quite human, being about seven feet tall and slightly furry. He rumbled, ominously.

"What is _this_?" the female-looking one spit.

Constantine sauntered toward them. "A demon-trap, luv. But don't tell me you didn't know that."

She glared at the sorcerer. "And who are you, mortal? Don't you know that tangling with demons is hazardous to your health?"

The sorcerer only swaggered closer. "Me? I'm John Constantine. And thanks for the surgeon general's warning, but trust me...I'm aware."

The demoness sucked in her breath. "So. Since when is the laughing magician shop-boy to an angel?"

Constantine raised his eyebrows innocently. "Angel?"

"Please. This place reeks of ethereal magic. Don't tell me you can't smell it. Where are they?"

"Where are who?"

"That traitor Crowley and his angel lover."

Constantine shrugged. "Don't know what you're talking about, luv. I'm just here filling in for a few extra quid. Got to build a bit of a cushion to help weather the Brexit fallout, you know. Was that your lot's work? If so, congratulations."

"Don't play innocent, Constantine. It doesn't suit you." The woman-shaped thing's claws lengthened visibly, and her ears went pointy and bat-like. "Tell me where they are, or I'll rend your soul from your miserable corpse."

"Send Hank McCoy over there home, and I'll consider it. You don't need him to deal with a puny mortal, do you?"

The demoness considered this for a moment, then nodded at her companion.

He shifted, but did not leave the square. "I cannot, my Lady."

Constantine stuck his hands in his pockets. "Ah, well. That's because to let you out of there or to banish you, I'd need to use your true names. So..."

"Ignorant mortal. You dare to cross us without knowing our names?" the beast rumbled.

"Ah. Well, not exactly. I could make a guess for yours, big boy." Constantine raised a hand. "I banish you, Foras. _Confundántur et revereántur quaeréntes ánimam meam. Sicut déficit fumus defíciant; sicut fluit cera a fácie ígnis 4._"

The tall, hairy demon writhed and roared before vanishing in twisting column of smoke.

The demoness glared at the sorcerer. She had returned to a rather more human-like appearance. "Well done, conjurer. But I wonder if you could guess mine?"

"Hmm. Now you are an intriguing puzzle, and no mistake." Constantine leaned on the edge of the angel's desk. "You clearly outrank old Foras there, and yet you're not in the Testament of Solomon, or in the Ars Goetica, or any of the old lists. Which means you've risen quite fast. All the way to...Duke?"

"Duchess," she corrected, eyes flashing.

"Well done. Hereditary nobility is a bit crap, but clawing your way up the infernal hierarchy - I have to respect that."

She raised an eyebrow. "And yet you would interfere with me in my duties? Tell me where to find the Serpent. The punishment of a renegade demon is no business of yours."

Beside his hand, Constantine's cell phone buzzed. He glanced down.

_Don't you dare - A.D._

He smiled. "I beg to differ. See, this is _my_ turf. When you go dragging your infernal quarrels up here, it becomes my business." Constantine strolled over to the window, and picked up the plant mister. He twirled it around one finger by the trigger and sighted down it at the demoness.

She scoffed. "Please. You deny knowing that snake, and yet you use the same empty threats?"

"Oh, friends with Duke Hastur, are you? Well, see, the threat isn't so empty when _I_ make it, because _this_ stuff " - he pulled a small bottle out of his coat pocket - "is no threat to _me_." Constantine unscrewed the top of the plant mister, and poured in a bit of holy water. Then he replaced the top and swirled it around thoroughly. "I suspect a 1:10 solution won't discorporate you entirely. But..."

He spritzed the demoness lightly. She screamed, clawing at her skin, which smoked where the droplets touched it. "What do you _want_?"

Constantine pursed his lips. "Well, I'd like to demand you give up this pursuit of yours. But I doubt I could trust you not to go back on your word the moment you're out of this box." He fixed her with a cold stare, and pulled the trigger once more, triggering another feral howl. "But you can trust that this place is defended. So if you value _your_ health, I'd advise you not show your face around London again."

The demoness snarled at him. "Let me out, and we'll see how fast a shot you are."

"Yeah, let's not." The sorcerer raised a hand. " _Deus térræ, clemántiam tuam súpplices expóscimus. Avertántur retrórsum et confundántur, cogitántes mála. Fíant táamquam púlvis ante fáciem vénti. Vade, Rosacarnis; contremísce et éffuge, invocáto a nóbis sáncto et terríbili nominé quem ínferi trémunt._ 5

Rosacarnis screamed, a high-pitched sound that was suddenly cut off as her body went gray and crumbled into dust.

"What did you _do_?"

Panting slightly, Constantine turned around to see Anathema emerge from behind a bookshelf. He straightened up and gave her a crooked grin. "That, luv, was an exorcism."

Anathema's jaw dropped. " _That's_ what an exorcism does?"

"Well, not if it's a possession. But these demons weren't wearing a human as a suit, so..." He made a "poof" motion. "Should slow them down a bit."

"Slow them down. So you didn't kill them?"

The sorcerer shrugged. "Not technically."

"Why not?"

He raised an eyebrow at her tone. "Hmm, aren't _we_ feeling bloodthirsty today?"

Anathema crossed her arms and glared at him. "You just let two dangerous demons loose? You didn't even try to make them promise to let Crowley go?"

Constantine made a frustrated gesture. "We've got no leverage, darlin'! A demon like Rosacarnis, she'd break a promise like that before you could spit. So what then, hmm? Keep them tied up on the doorstep forever? That'd be bad for business. Melt them with pure holy water? To hear your scaly friend tell it, that sort of thing is part of the reason they're so pissed at him to begin with. Best I could do for now was scare them and force them to get new corporations before they try again. I have it on good authority that getting a new body issued by hell's bureaucracy is quite the process."

Anathema considered this. "Fine. I guess that makes sense," she said grudgingly.

"Right. Thanks for that." Constantine paused. "Here, how did you get in, anyway?"

"My grandmother always said witches were back-door kinds of people."

The sorcerer pursed his lips. "Huh. Me dad would say that explains a lot about me."

Anathema grimaced and rolled her eyes. "Why do you do that?"

"Do what, luv?"

"Every second thing out of your mouth seems to be some combination of bitter, sarcastic, and/or dirty."

Constantine's mouth quirked up at the corner. "It's all whistlin' in the dark, innit? Lunch?"

~~~

Aziraphale had one book open on his lap, one on each side of him, and a fourth on the coffee table. He was attempting to make sense of a number of vague references to various Dukes of Hell, their powers, and how they had supposedly been vanquished. However, he was finding it hard to concentrate.

"Dear, will you _please_ stop pacing? You're wearing a hole in the rug."

Crowley ruffled his hands through his hair. "I'm trying to think, Angel!"

"So am I, but you're being _very_ distracting."

The demon threw himself theatrically into a chair and picked up one of the books. He brightened slightly when he saw what it was. "Oh, The Book of Soyga! I remember this one. Old John Dee was _obsessed_."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. "I know. Little did he know that visitation from Uriel he was so excited about was just _you_ in a spangly dress."

Crowley grinned. "Not that hard to impersonate an angel of light if you use enough lens flare, and the target's never seen the angel in question before." He flicked through the pages. "Why _did_ you ask me to obfuscate this one, anyway? It seems pretty well full of nonsense as it is, even before you get to the coded tables. 'Now it must be said how from that there is twice seven. One in one, duplicated, gives three. When the three are duplicated by reversal, that gives six, as in the one name, Ihesum.' I mean, what even _is_ that?"

The angel shifted uncomfortably. "Hmm. Well, you know how I gave away my sword?"

"Yeah?"

"Well...an old friend of mine, Raziel, went one better. Or worse, depending on your perspective. He gave Adam and Eve a book of divine knowledge."

The demon's eyebrows looked like they might levitate off his face. " _This_ book?"

"Not _exactly_. When Gabriel and Michael and such found out they were furious. They chucked the book in the sea and were threatening poor Raziel with all sorts of awful things. But then he was pardoned - though he was only allowed back on earth for very specific tasks. Nobody ever explained why, but I always hoped She knew his intentions were pure. And maybe that's why She never asked about the sword after that one time, either. Anyway, by they time the Archangels found out about the book it was at least thirty human generations after Raziel had handed it over, and some bits got copied. Bits like those tables."

Crowley thought he could see where this was going. "So when they resurfaced, you worried your bosses would get all riled up again. Maybe make trouble for your friend...or start looking a bit closer about what other angels were up to down here, hmm?"

"That was roughly what went through my mind, yes. If humans figured out those tables, or some of the other fragments from Raziel's book, they could have started summoning up Archangels or bending time or any number of troublesome things. But if _I'd_ done the visitiation..."

"...Gabriel would have had questions, yeah. Whereas _I_ could take credit for it as tempting an occultist. Hmm. Nicely done." The demon squinted at a page covered in squiggly lettering. "Is there anything useful to _us_ in this thing?"

"Possibly. It isn't easy reading, though, even for angels. Some of the summoning stuff, or the exorcisms, _might_ be useful in the right context. This bit here" he tapped at a symbol "can help you find a thin place that leads to the gates of heaven 6."

Crowley hummed thoughtfully. "Interesting. Still, I better leave that one to you, Angel." He put down the volume and picked up another.

About twenty minutes later, Aziraphale noticed that Crowley seemed to be breathing oddly. He looked up from his notes just as the demon flung the book he'd been reading down on the coffee table. He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes, hyperventilating.

The angel rushed to his side. "Dearest, what's wrong?"

Crowley shook his head. "I can't, Angel. I just can't sit here and read some human's garbled idea of how hell and demons work. This idiot author is claiming Belial is a good one to summon if you want a senatorship or a familiar. Has clearly has no fucking clue what that bastard can do to someone's mind. I read their names - Abraxas, Ukobach, Thamuz - and...and it's like I can see what they did...what they _would have_ done to you painted on the back of my skull."

Aziraphale wrapped his arms around the shivering demon. "It's all right. You don't have to push yourself to do this."

"But I can't...I don't want you having to do this on your own!"

"I'm not. Just having you beside me helps. And I have John and Anathema to consult with too, remember. So why don't you do something that lets your mind relax and wander. Read one of those detective stories, or spend time in the garden...you might find a useful thought just pops into your head. And if I get an idea from all this," he waved a hand at the books, "I can run it past you, and you can tell me if it sounds reasonable. All right?"

Crowley huffed out a sigh. "Yeah. All right."

He wandered out the back door of the cottage onto a little flagstone patio. It was edged in an herb garden of sorts, though the weeds coming through the gravel threatened to choke out the oregano and mint and such. Crowley glared at the encroaching chickweed and dandelions, and they visibly shriveled a bit. Yes, this place could do with a bit of tending. There was a shed at the back of the garden. The spiders and field mice had made themselves at home inside, but quite an array of tools hung on the racks.

Crowley's eye fell on a hedging bill. It was a simple tool, with a long history. Mostly a peaceful, nondescript history of trimming hedges, pruning grapevines, and the like. But now and again peasants with a grievance had looked down at the bill or scythe in their hand and realized they were not so unarmed as they seemed. A billhook attached to a pole was very effective in dragging a knight down from his high horse. Crowley hefted the bill in his hand, twirled it slightly, and admired the broad, curving blade.

He was doing battle with the rebellious hedges, and making some progress, when he noticed a gnarled tree in the corner of the garden. It was late in the year for apple blossoms, but perhaps the shade from taller trees had delayed things. Either way, it felt like a hopeful sign.

~~~

Anathema let herself in the back door of the bookshop and found Constantine hunched over a laptop. "Did you know there are a couple of demons in the coffeeshop across the way?"

He looked up. "The one in the grubby mac with the bad Andy Warhol wig and the fat one with the checked trousers?"

The witch nodded.

"Yeah, they've been there all day. Must be _terrible_ for business. Wait...you didn't go in, did you?"

Anathema shook her head. "No, I Saw them. In a dream last week. Then as I was coming down the road I saw some details from the dream - a kid with a bunch of balloons, a guy crashing his bike - and knew it must be Now. That's why I came around the back again."

There was a ring from the computer, and Constantine answered the call as Anathema dropped into the seat next to him. "So, the bad news is that there are demons staked out outside your shop. The good news is - they don't seem inclined to come in."

Aziraphale looked worried. "Oh, dear. You two are taking precautions, aren't you?"

"I was able to slip past," Anathema said. "I don't think they know what I look like."

"And I've set up a door to my house in the pantry," Constantine said casually, as if portals to a different part of London were a perfectly normal thing to install in a friend's place while house-sitting. "Much less trouble when I want one of _my_ books, or I need to step out for a smoke. You can go out that way, if you like," he volunteered to the witch.

Aziraphale coughed. "Ah. Well. Good."

The demon leaned in to the camera. "We _will_ have to talk about that later. But for now...Any ideas for getting the angel his powers back?

"Yeah. So. There seem to be three main options. One - persuade or threaten someone Upstairs into giving them back."

Crowley hummed thoughtfully. "Yeah, that was my number one as well. It seemed to be Gabriel's decision to cut off the miracles, so I suppose he might be persuaded into giving them back. Doesn't seem likely, though."

"OK. Two - tap into whatever the source of these powers are directly. Some kind of heavenly energy, I suppose?"

"Is that possible?" Crowley asked. His thoughts went to the book of Soyga.

Constantine shrugged. "Theoretically. If you could locate the source within the spiritual realm and connect to it..."

"No." Aziraphale said firmly. "We are _not_ hacking heaven. Don't you two think we're in enough trouble already?"

"Right, then. That leaves three - replace your original powers with some other kind of magic."

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Do bad card-tricks count?"

Aziraphale huffed.

"We were thinking something a bit stronger," Anathema said. "Angels can obviously learn how to draw magic circles, based on what Michael did 7. Maybe you could also learn to use potions and incantations."

"Or..." Constantine said slowly, "You _might_ be able to share powers, in a way."

"What do you mean?" Aziraphale asked.

"Well...some years back, I was in the hospital with about fifteen different broken bones when I got an infusion of demon blood. It healed me right up, made me twice as fast, twice as strong. That was temporary, but I think there are still some lingering effects. For instance...how old would you say I am?" he asked Anathema.

She looked Constantine over carefully. "Hmm. Taking into account the smoking and poor grooming standards...maybe thirty-five?"

"No, that can't be right," Aziraphale interrupted. "You said you were fighting demons in the 1980's. That must make you at least..."

"Fifty-three. Yeah. The stuff seems to have slowed down my aging. And though I could always sense magic a bit, that ability has been a lot stronger ever since. So..."

"No." Crowley interrupted. "We are not filling the angel up with my blood or any other random bodily fluids."

"Ooh. _Phrasing_ , mate! Besides, I would have thought..."

"Don't." The demon glared at him. "Look, I've seen what demon _venom_ does to an angel. Or, rather, I guess I saw what the demon in question thought it would do: simultaneously heal and cause excruciating pain. Who _knows_ what it would _actually_ do! We are not going to try anything like that just _in case_ it lends magical powers."

"Yes, you're probably right, dear," Aziraphale agreed. "Jumping right to that _is_ a bit too mad-scientist. Though perhaps in case of an emergency it might be worth trying."

Constantine shrugged. "Suit yourself. I guess that brings us back to trying to get some leverage on Gabriel and/or trying to teach you potions, then."

"So it seems."

Anathema nodded. "Right, then. I have some recipes I could give you."

"Thank you, my dear," the angel replied. "Although, if potion-making is anything like cooking, it might be a steep learning curve."

After the call ended, Constantine turned to Anathema with a curious look. "Those visions...have you always had them?"

She shook her head. "No. They only came on after...well, I sometimes wonder if they either have something to do with burning the sequel. Or with how the world got put back together after the apocawhoops. Or maybe it's just genetic and doesn't kick in until a certain age. I don't know."

"Slow down, luv. I have no idea what you're talking about. Sequel? Genetic?"

Anathema sighed. "I don't suppose you've heard of Agnes Nutter?"

Constantine grinned. "Of course! Last witch burned in England; took out the witchfinder and most of her treacherous village with her. Now _there's_ a way to go!"

Then his jaw dropped open. "The book! The demon said you lost a book in his car and Aziraphale took it. It wasn't..."

"'The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch', yes. She was my ancestor."

Constantine whistled. "Bloody hell. No wonder he snatched it up, with the end of the world breathing down the back of our necks. And...there was a sequel? That you _burned_?"

Anathema nodded. "Mmmhmm. I was tired of being a professional descendant, as it were. I wanted to make my own decisions. So when the visions started showing up not long afterward, it felt rather like a bad joke."

"Useful, though. Don't suppose you've got any stock tips?"

"No. For whatever reason, I haven't picked up anything more than six months in the future - not that I have a good sense of the timing until the thing happens. Sometimes I get stuff from the past, too, but only up to thirty or forty years back, as far as I can tell. Mostly they concern me or people I know. Or maybe those are just the ones I remember. And sometimes I just...know things about people."

The sorcerer considered this. "More useful to _you_ than getting a glimpse at technology 300 years in the future that you don't understand, I suppose 8." He looked at her. "This knowing things about people...You already said you can see auras. This is different?"

"Yeah. The aura tells me about how someone feels, what their basic personality is...but only because I've learned to interpret them. This is...I get glimpses of _why_ they are like they are."

Constantine fished a bottle of scotch from under the table and looked at her questioningly.

"John, it's two in the afternoon."

"Right. It's _after_ noon. And, well, you don't seem particularly comfortable with this gift of yours, and there's stuff I don't particularly want to ask. But I reckon I should. So...?"

Anathema sighed. "Fine. Got a clean glass?"

Constantine poured them both a drink and took a long swallow. "So. You basically didn't trust me from the moment you laid eyes on me. And you said I had a - what was it? - a 'janky aura'. What did you mean? And did you see something else?"

Anathema sipped the scotch and made a face. But if they _were_ going to talk about this... "Eh. To be fair, as the fact that we're having this conversation should show, I've amended it from 'probably untrustworthy' to 'maybe trustworthy in specific areas'."

"Oh, well, that's progress, I guess. But I'd still like to know."

The witch took a deep breath. "You clearly don't trust _yourself_. You are proud, but you feel a lot of guilt. You have a lot of lives on your conscience, don't you?"

Constantine grunted. "Lives and souls, luv. It's the souls that keep me up at night."

"There's fewer of those than you think," Anathema said carelessly, and then looked surprised at the words that had just come out of her mouth.

The sorcerer stared at her hard. "Come again?"

"I don't know, it's just...an image I got. Many lives, few souls. And the star girl isn't one of them."

Constantine had to restrain himself from grabbing the witch and shaking her, but the intensity still came through in his voice. "What? What girl? _Why did you say that?_ "

Anathema eyed him anxiously. "I...I don't know. I saw your guilt about a young girl. She was like a star, and her soul was clean. I have _no_ idea what that means - but I take it that means something to you?"

The sorcerer settled back in his chair, and downed the rest of his drink. "Yeah. It means something." He sighed. "Well. Time to hit the books again, I suppose."

~~~

Crowley had spent several more hours out in the garden, alternately threatening the plants and doing more normal yard maintenance tasks like pruning and watering while wracking his brains to find something they might use as leverage against hell. He had failed to come up with anything, and was in a bit of a mood when he stomped back inside.

He found Aziraphale reading, but the book was considerably smaller than the grimoire the angel had been paging through earlier. Crowley leaned in and read the title. "Urrgh. You brought the 'The Great Gatsby'?"

"No, I just needed a break. Some previous resident left it here."

Crowley made a face. "Not surprising."

Aziraphale lowered the volume and raised an eyebrow.

The demon sighed. "OK, yes, I read it. Look, I had some time to kill, and I was _promised_ scandalous debauchery. What I _got_ was a bunch of rich people being alternately boring, idiotic, and terrible 9, with a _super_ depressing ending."

The angel nodded. "Mmm. I suppose I'd mostly have to agree - the characters aren't exactly _likeable_ \- but it does have beautiful writing and some strong themes. Why didn't you ever mention reading it?"

Crowley shoved his hands in his pockets. "Well, it was the mid 1960s when I got round to it. If we'd talked about it then, it would have got awkward really fast."

Aziraphale blinked at him. "What does the decade have to do with...oh."

He recalled a certain conversation that had involved him offering in rapid sequence a gift of trust, a rejection, and vague hope - a conversation that must have been at least twice as confusing to Crowley as the feelings that inspired that mess had been to him. "No. _No._ You did _not_ mentally cast me as Daisy, did you? Who was Tom - Gabriel?"

Crowley groaned. "Look, I wasn't _trying_ to make any one-to-one comparisons, all right? But what with Gatsby pining after this unattainable person who is too far above him, and trying to impress her with these grand gestures..."

"Yes, yes, I know why _you_ might relate. Though he's _way_ more pushy and controlling than you would ever be. But if you were connecting me to _Daisy_ , I'm amazed it didn't put you right off!" Aziraphale protested. "She's awful. She doesn't really care about anyone: not Gatsby, not Tom, not that woman she ran over, not even her daughter!"

Crowley dropped onto the arm of the chair and draped an arm around his shoulders. "Easy, Angel. It was more like the story had a way of tapping into all my anxieties at the time, than that it had any relation to reality."

Then he gave Aziraphale a crooked, half-pained smile. "You know, I probably should have guessed it wasn't really you Down There."

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, I would recite stuff to that 'Aziraphale'. To try to take his mind off of things. Poems, book summaries, that kind of thing. I didn't think of it until now, but he hardly ever volunteered anything concrete. I put it down to pain-induced exhaustion. But you, the _real_ you, couldn't resist conversing, or more likely _arguing,_ about a work of literature even if your legs had just fallen off."

Aziraphale stared at him. "Since when do you _recite poetry_?"

Crowley grunted. "Not the point, Angel. And I didn't say I did it _well_ \- the real you probably would have caught a dozen mistakes." He looked thoughtful. "I tell you, though. Whoever impersonated you still deserves a bloody Oscar. And a good ass kicking. Not sure in which order."

"Do you know how they did it?"

"Well, if I had to guess, it was probably a shapeshifting demon. One that isn't limited to just a couple of forms like me, but instead can take on any aspect. Maybe with a bit of extra glamour dusted on top for effect. That would explain why they kept me at a distance. If I ever actually touched the imposter or got close enough to smell them properly the glamour would have failed."

Aziraphale frowned. "Would they...would the imposter actually have to have been tortured?"

"There were likely some special effects involved. But...yeah, probably a bit." He noticed the angel wince. "As you may have noticed, demons don't exactly play happy families."

"And...they never broke character?"

"Nope. Not once." He eyed the angel carefully. "Why do you ask?"

"Just wondering if those facts suggest anyone in particular. Impressive shape-shifting ability. Ability to commit to a role. And possibly deep enough in hell's, or at least the Dukes', bad books that they might accept a very painful role of indeterminate length rather than risk something worse."

"Huh." Crowley drummed his fingers on the back of the chair for a while, pondering. Then he jumped to his feet. "Empusa!"

"Who?"

The demon was pacing back and forth, as he often did when he got an idea. "Used to hang around in Greece, mostly. Luring travelers off the road and into trouble by taking on various forms. She was _very_ good at it. But she pissed off Dagon and got reassigned."

"What did she do?"

"Well, instead of sticking to the tempting, as instructed, she kept _eating_ travelers. She seemed to always get peckish around the ones who were in a state of grace, and who therefore went straight to heaven. Dagon was her line manager as well, and used to bitch about it all the time."

Aziraphale made a face. "Charming. So this could have been punishment for that bad habit?"

"I doubt it; that was centuries ago. _But_ she _is_ the type to drift off mission and get herself in trouble. Hmm. Think we ought to have a chat with her?"

Aziraphale nodded. "I'll call Mr. Constantine."

1\. Not that he could resist taking a glimpse now and then. Back

2\. For example, on the subject of generosity: "Do you know the moment I could no longer deny that I loved you? It was that night during the Blitz when you not only spared me from having to either use my powers against humans or be discorporated, but saved my books. I'd forgotten about them for a moment, but you never did. All the other kind things you'd done for me over the years just came back in a rush. Taking me out to eat hundreds of times even though you hardly partake, distracting that witchfinder who'd got hold of the wrong end of the stick, taking care of me that time I overdid it during the plague, making sure 'Hamlet' was a hit, springing me out of the Bastille, sending me manuscripts you thought I'd like...just to name a few. Of course, given that, I was an utter fool not to know you felt the same. But what I _did_ realize was that being so utterly and hopelessly in love with you couldn't be wrong, no matter what anyone else said. I didn't love you _in spite_ of who you were, but _because_ of it. You're the best friend I could have ever asked for, and if I did ever feel guilty afterwards it was for not being satisfied with that. And to have _that_ be all right too, and to have a chance to return all that love...it's bliss, darling." Back

3\. Seriously, sometimes it seems like EVERYTHING happened in Soho. Back

4\. Let them be confounded and ashamed that seek after my soul. As smoke vanisheth, so let them vanish away: as wax melteth before the fire. Back

5\. God of earth, we humbly implore Thy mercy. Let them be turned back and be confounded that devise evil. Let them become as dust before the wind. Begone, Rosacarnis; tremble and flee when we invoke the Holy and terrible Name which causes hell to tremble. Back

6\. There are, of course, many routes besides a certain escalator in London. Back

7\. Neither she nor Constantine had seen Aziraphale's hotline to heaven, which was usually hidden under the rug.Back

8\. The only one of Agnes' prophecies he's actually seen, of course, was the one in the publisher's catalog: 'Do notte buy betamacks.' Back

9\. Which felt _way_ too much like work.Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of emotional confessions in this one! Sorry it was so long.
> 
> Yes, "Shangri-la" is technically a cottage in the South Downs...if occupied under less relaxing circumstances than usually depicted. 
> 
> Considering that people have joked that John Constantine's original nemesis was Margaret Thatcher, I enjoyed having him find out this angel with the upper class manners is totally on the same page about that. The 14th century revolution thing will be the subject of an upcoming story, to be titled "The light that is coming in the morning".  
> BTW - I've realized I have no idea where Constantine gets his money. He never seems to have a normal job, but usually has just enough cash to get by. My best guess is some combination of using his preternatural luck to his advantage in gambling, and possibly having one of those fairy purses that gives you one coin at a time. 
> 
> John Dee was a mathematician, astrologer, and occultist at the court of Elizabeth I. He really did claim to converse with the Archangel Uriel about the Book of Soyga. Uriel supposedly told him that the book dated back to the time of Adam, and that the tables could only be deciphered by the Archangel Michael. Dee's copy, one of only two known to be in existence, disappeared for several centuries after his death, but then turned up in the British Library in 1994. It seems the tables will generate different combinations of outputs if you "plug in" different occult terms, sort of like a verbal algorithm. But no one knows what they were supposed to be for.  
> The angel Raziel is the protagonist in a Promethean story that involves the gift of a book of divine wisdom to Adam and Eve after their fall. In the original story, the other angels throw the book in the sea, but God retrieves it and gives it back to the humans. I think Raziel and Aziraphale would probably get along.


	8. Protective instincts

Constantine finished painting a wobbly red pentagram on an area of packed earth beneath an oak tree, and set down the bowl in front of it.

"Dare I ask where you got the blood?" Aziraphale inquired.

"Halal butcher's. The ritual did specify goat - a black one, for preference. Now, open up that ouzo and splash it just at the points. Mind you don't smudge the pentagram. Cheers. That should do it." The sorcerer closed his eyes and spoke the words of the incantantion.

Lightning crackled at the center of the pentagram, and a demon materialized. She was short, thin, and angular. Of the feet that peeped out from beneath her ribbon-edged skirt, one appeared to be made of brass, the other was hoofed like a donkey. She wore an embroidered peasant blouse, and looked confused. "What...where...who?" Her tawny lion's eyes widened as they fell on the blonde mortal.

"Hello, luv. I'm John Constantine. But really it's my friends here who'd like a word..."

The demoness glanced over his right shoulder, and saw a very familiar figure holding a plastic spray bottle. "Oh, shit. Please don't hurt me."

Aziraphale looked about as severe as was possible for him without going into full-on avenging angel mode. "I understand you spent a great deal of time whimpering that sort of thing while _wearing my face_. I would very much like an explanation."

Empusa flinched. "I'm sorry! It wasn't personal!"

"You know, I'm getting _really sick_ of that excuse," another familiar voice snarled. Crowley stalked over to the edge of the circle, golden eyes blazing. "You let me think someone I care about more than _anything_ was being tortured right in front of me. I thought we were cool, Empusa. But you never thought to tip me the wink it was all an act?"

"I couldn't!"

"Why not? It can't have been a pleasant experience for you, either. I know you tipped them off when I tried to escape. Twice! Why couldn't you have turned a blind eye, and ended our suffering?"

The shapeshifter cringed under his glare and the threat of the spray bottle. "My imps!" she squeaked.

That pulled Crowley up short. "Sorry, what?"

Empusa sighed. "I messed up..."

"Eating near-saints again?"

"No! Lord Dagon reassigned me to Lord Belial's team after _that_. And for a while everything was fine. I was working my way up again. Got assigned back to earth to promote despair. It should have been a simple enough thing: take on the form of someone they love or respect, and break their hearts or give them advice that tipped their minds toward darkness. But...oh, some humans are so _sweet_ , aren't they? I didn't eat them, even though the nice ones do smell _so_ delicious. I just never thought anyone'd notice if I...well, if I deliberately failed to depress them. Or...or sort of did the opposite. Lord Belial did find out, though, and said I had to take this job to prove myself. Work for Rosacarnis, impersonate the angel. And that I better not screw up, or my imps would be reassigned to work with Lord Hastur." She gave them a pleading look. "They're just fledglings, hardly two hundred years old. They'd never have made it!"

Aziraphale had moved over to stand by Crowley. "By imps...does she mean _children_?" he whispered. He thought again of the little fat demon Hastur had so callously used to test the holy water. He didn't know if that one had been young, but they had certainly been treated as expendable.

Empusa read his face and nodded. "Lord Hastur is a harsh master."

"They're safe?" Crowley asked shortly. "Now that your job is done?"

"Yes. Lord Hastur wanted to claim I'd failed, but Lord Beelzebub said I'd fulfilled my contract. They're working with Lord Dagon in the records department. Whining about it incessantly, too. But I told them: 'You just be thankful you've got a boss who'll bury you in paperwork instead of flesh-eating maggots 1.'"

"Right. Then tell me how you did it."

Empusa shrugged nervously. "Oh, well, Lord Belial helped with the glamour. And I did a lot of rehearsing. And research."

"Research?" Aziraphale asked.

"Yes. Well, I...I hung around your neighborhood in various disguises. To see how you walked, how you held your hands, how you spoke to people..."

"Hang on," Crowley interrupted with a growl. "Did you shove that drunk in front of a train? The train that nearly squashed my friend here?"

"No! I was just there to observe. Although...he _might_ have spotted me changing shape, and got spooked. I had a lot of pictures to work from, too," Empusa added quickly, hoping to change the subject. Crowley had looked rather murderous when he mentioned that train. It worked.

"Pictures?"

"Yeah, lots of close ups, different angles. So I could get the details right."

"Where did these pictures come from?" Crowley demanded.

"I don't know. I swear to Satan! Rosacarnis just gave me a big folder of them and told me to study. So I did."

Empusa rubbed her own forearms, almost as if hugging herself. "I hope I never get a job like that again, honestly. It was...it was about half real. What you saw. I didn't know how long it was going to last, either. Could have been weeks, could have been decades. I probably would have slipped into despair myself if it wasn't for you." She turned to Aziraphale. "You should have heard it. The way he tried to...to weave a blanket of comfort out of words and songs. It was beautiful."

She swung back to face Crowley. "I wanted to tell you, I really did. But...but that's what got me in trouble in the first place. Breaking character, and breaking the despair out of pity. I had to. I couldn't..."

"Yeah, yeah, all right. Last question: Who's driving this? Because somehow it doesn't feel like it was Beelzebub. And that's weird."

Empusa shifted from metal foot to hoofed one and back. "Well...it was mostly some of the Lords - Hastur especially, but also Belial and Xaphan and such - who insisted on trying again to get their revenge. Beelzebub, ze just wanted to get back to normal, get everyone back to work. But they went over zir head to our Dark Lord after Rosacarnis proposed her plan. That's how she got promoted. It was conditional on results, though."

"Hmm. And what about our old boss? I'm surprised they didn't turn up to watch."

Empusa shook her head. "Lord Dagon boycotted. They said a good clean execution was one thing, but tormenting a fellow demon was unseemly - like something heaven would do."

"Huh." Well, Crowley supposed the Lord of the Files _had_ always been a stickler for protocol. "I suppose that's what we needed to know, really."

He nodded at Constantine.

" _Adjurámus te, Empusa, non últra áudeas decípere. Váde et_ _non loqui_ "2

As the sorcerer intoned the words, the demoness faded and vanished - not reduced to dust, just returned to whereever she had been.

They packed up the conjuring gear, and Aziraphale remarked: "So...it seems there _are_ some factions or differences of opinion on hell's side."

"What did I tell you?" Constantine said, tossing the bag into the boot. "Now we just have to find the right wedge betwen them." He slid into the back - it was quite clear by now that only one person _ever_ got the front passenger seat.

'Another one bites the dust' began playing as they pulled out onto the road.

"Queen fan, eh?" Constantine commented.

Crowley shrugged. "Yeah. Though that's just good luck, really."

"What?"

"Lucky that I like the Bentley's taste in music. Used to be Buddy Holly, then the Stones, but she got a thing for Queen in the '80s and hasn't moved on since. I've tried to tell her the angel doesn't like rock - and yes, _that_ is the proper term, Angel, not _bebop_ \- but it doesn't seem to make a difference. I _can_ play something else, but only if I remember to keep the recording outside of the car most of the time, and even then she gets grumpy. Best not to fight it, really."

The sorcerer nodded slowly. _Right. So the_ car _controls the music it plays. Noted._

After a while, he remarked. "You know... I've been wondering if you two are contagious somehow."

"I beg your pardon," the angel said, sounding affronted.

"Well, look - I don't know what this one was like before he met _you_. But a long-time associate of _his_ apparently went from ghoulish man-eater, to feeling sorry for humans she had to make sad, to bleeding mum of the year 3. And even soddin' Beelzebub and Dagon...they might not _like_ you, mate, but I still never expected to see those two ready to walk away from a slight. It's bloody _weird_. In a good way, mind."

_Not to mention I've completely lost any reservations_ I _might have had about helping the pair of you_ , he added to himself.

"I'll have you know Crowley was perfectly lovely from the beginning - Oh, hush, dear," Aziraphale added, hearing a hiss starting. "You were, even if you had to pretend otherwise. And if one demon can be like that, surely there's others who could be at least _decent_ , given a bit of effort and the right opportunity. You could well have had a good influence on some of them."

"Hmmph. Even if you're right - and I'm _not_ saying you are - it's the ones who still want to torment us for eternity that I'm concerned about."

_She's a Killer Queen  
Gunpowder, gelatine  
Dynamite with a laser beam  
Guaranteed to blow your mind  
Anytime_

Crowley grunted. "You got it, old girl. That one especially."

They dropped Constantine off at the Maidstone station 4, and turned back west.

"So...are we going to talk about demons having kids?" Aziraphale asked after a while.

Crowley raised an eyebrow at him. "Did you really not know that was a thing?"

"No! That is, I'd heard people use term like 'hellspawn', but I thought that was something the humans made up."

"Nope. How do you think we kept our numbers even with yours, despite smitings, holy water, and in-fighting?"

"But...demons are former angels, and angels don't reproduce! If they did, I'm sure I would have noticed!"

"Well, most don't have the right...bits installed, do they? Not on a regular basis. And what about the nephilim?" Crowley pointed out. "Thought getting rid of them was half the reason God decided to drown a whole region."

" _They_ were half human. And the angels involved..."

"...Fell, and became some of our most prolific, um, spawners," Crowley interjected.

"Good Lord." Aziraphale contemplated this for a while.

"Mind you, I wouldn't say most demons are particularly _good_ parents," Crowley added. "Well, they're not good _anythings_ , of course. That's kind of the point."

"Empusa certainly seems to love her offspring. Or at least is highly protective of them."

"Yeah, and look at the position _that_ put her in! I'd say Rosacarnis' dad is more typical. He caught the nursemaid being _nice_ to little Rosa when she was sad about something or other, and made the kid stab the poor blighter through the heart with a blessed knife for 'encouraging weakness'."

Aziraphale gasped. "So she's..."

"Native to hell, and to the manner born - as Hamlet might say. Produces some _lovely_ results, doesn't it?"

"Mmm. So I take it you never..."

"Urggh. _Fuck_ no. Even discounting that like 95% of other demons are massively unappealing - 100% after meeting you, of course - I couldn't have _that_ on my conscience."

They drove in silence for a bit. "Er, Angel," Crowley said carefully. "Any particular reason you're asking about this?"

"No, no. Not at all. Just curious."

"Oh, good. That is," he amended, worrying he might have sounded a little _too_ relieved, "you know me. Most of the time I'm all: 'anything you like, darling'. But I _really_ don't think we need to go looking for more trouble, do you?"

"Oh, no, I _quite_ agree. Although I did wonder...You were awfully good with young Warlock. But I never asked if that was something you'd want - for yourself, you know - because I didn't know it was _possible_ even with...adjustments on both sides, as it were."

Crowley gave him a look. "Angel, I _like_ kids fine, but the last time we were _in charge_ of one we misplaced it and spent 11 years confusing a completely different kid with contradictory advice. And then I tried to persuade you to murder both of them."

"Only because we thought that would stop the apocalypse, and there was no way _you_ were going to bring yourself to do it. But I take your point."

"Not to mention that angel-demon hybrids are completely uncharted territory. No 'What to expect when you're expecting a demi-holy occult abomination' book tucked away in your shop, now is there? What if we got a winged snake that spits up sulfurous holy water when you try to burp it? What if I had to _lay_ an _egg_?"

"Do be serious, dear."

"I _am_. They don't call baby demons 'spawn' for nothing, you know. It'd probably be like one of those ridiculously huge kiwi eggs just to spite me 5."

~~~

Aziraphale should have seen the nightmare coming. After all, they'd met with the actual demon who had been impersonating him, and then come home and discussed how to exploit the apparent division between Beelzebub and the other Lords of Hell. He'd been excited they were actually making progress, and had forgotten to suggest some kind of soothing activity or even a cup of calming chamomile before bed. Not that that sort of thing had banished Crowley's nightmares so far 6. But they hadn't even tried. And this was a doozy. It had started with helpless sobbing but before the angel could even try soothing him it had graduated into screaming and flailing. He'd had to pinion the demon to keep him from getting up and crashing into the walls in a panicked, half-asleep state and possibly damaging himself. That, of course, had only led to more screaming and thrashing until the combination of Azriraphale's voice and his soothing love-glow broke through. Crowley had seen him for a moment, then, and had muttered something apologetic before dropping again into an exhausted sleep.

The angel tried to make up for it in the morning. He let Crowley sleep as long as he liked. When the demon woke up, around 11, he found coffee and pancakes waiting for him. He looked a bit haggard, but smiled.

"Huh. Thanks, Angel. What's this all for?"

"Well, you had rather a rough night, love. I was thinking...why don't we drop the whole hell business for a day?"

"Angel, we can't just forget about..."

"Why not? Just for a day. Then we can come back to it with fresh minds. What do you say?"

Crowley sighed. But he couldn't deny he felt nearly as tired as he had when newly plucked from the Pit. "Yeah, all right. What did you have in mind?"

They finished their breakfast 7, and took a walk down to the local lake. The water was clear - you could see fish swimming around below the paddling feet of the ducks. The loop trail took about an hour to walk, and when they were nearly back to the start the pair sat down on a bench and tossed some crusts to the birds. The wind rustled the branches of the trees, and birds sang in the bushes. It was a beautiful June day, and Aziraphale could see the tension draining out of Crowley's face and shoulders as he basked in the sunlight. Yes, this was _just_ what they needed. No conjuring or scheming or general running about, just sunlight and growing things and a reminder of life's continuity and resilience.

The angel found himself humming under his breath, and it was only when Crowley raised an eyebrow at him and the corner of his mouth quirked up that he realized the tune was 'Morning has broken'8.

Aziraphale flushed. "Well...there is a rather fresh feeling to the day, isn't there? I suppose it had me feeling nostalgic."

The demon smiled more broadly. "Not complaining, Angel. Although...I would put it to you that this is nicer than that so-called paradise."

"Is that so?"

Crowley nodded. "Yup. For one thing..." He draped an arm around the angel's shoulders, "I can do _this_ in full confidence that you won't smite me."

Aziraphale snuggled closer. "Mmm. And I can do _this_..." he stroked Crowley's face and planted a kiss on his mouth - close-lipped, but with just a hint of heat "knowing that the big bad Serpent is, in fact, a giant pussycat."

"Oh, is that what you think?"

"Mmmhmm. An utter softie who memorizes poetry in secret and gets a kick out of watching hedonistic angels eat pancakes."

Crowley's grin had taken on its full mischievous splendor. "What slander! I really must come up with something to restore my wicked reputation..."

The mood was broken as a tiny roar uttered from somewhere around knee level caused the ducks and pigeons who had been hopefully begging for more bread crumbs to erupt in a panicky swarm. Crowley was on his feet in a second, scanning for the threat. This proved to be a small child who had tried to grab a pigeon with a flying leap and was now lying wailing in the mud.

"Lucas! What are you doing? Don't bother the gentlemen!" a woman's voice exclaimed. She was heavily pregnant, and had clearly been outpaced by the frustrated pigeon-hunter.

Aziraphale helped the child to his feet. "You're all right - up we come!"

"I'm terribly sorry." The mother was puffing slightly, and looked embarrassed.

"Perfectly all right, I assure you," the angel replied, treating her to his winning smile. He turned his attention to the boy. "Now, young master Lucas. If you want to get close to our feathery friends, a bit of patience and kindness is all you need. Observe."

Aziraphale tossed a bit of bread near the edge of the water. The ducks eyed the humans and man-shaped beings suspiciously for a moment. The one of the braver ones waddled forward and gulped it down. The angel tossed another crumb, slightly closer this time. The ducks edged forward.

The angel handed over the bag. "Now you - gently does it."

Lucas dropped a crust a few feet in front of him, and a large white duck surged forward to gobble it up. The boy giggled, and his mother snapped a photo.

Aziraphale turned his head, wondering if Crowley would be openly grinning or cloaking his enjoyment in his old veneer of stylish indifference.

To his surprise, Crowley was standing on the other side of the path, looking strangely agitated.

"Umm. I should go. Remember, gentle tosses."

He hurried over to where the demon was standing. "My dear, are you quite all right?"

"Yeah. Sure. It's...just a bit windy, don't you think? Maybe we should be heading back."

Although it was obvious that none of that was true, the angel went along with it.

Once they were back at the cottage, however, and Crowley had flung himself down on the gaudy sofa, he had to ask. "What happened out there, Crowley?"

Crowley looked up at him with haunted eyes. "Angel...did we do the right thing?"

Aziraphale blinked in confusion. "When?"

"In stopping Armageddon."

"Wh...Yes! Of course!" The angel sat down next to him, and laid a concerned hand on his shoulder. "What's going on?"

Crowley scrubbed his hands through his hair. "It's just...The dream was different, last night. It wasn't you and me. I could see all of hell. The demons and the lost souls, and everything. I could feel everything. And now I can't stop thinking about..."

He sighed in frustration, trying to figure out how to explain. "Just now we were talking about the beginning, and that family turned up... She reminded me of _her_ , and I swear that kid looked just like Abel. I remembered that my dream hadn't started in hell, it had started with me in that apple tree, well, _starting_ everything. And I couldn't not think about how of every ten of them that are born, four end up down there. Forever. Every generation just keeps adding more and more souls to the pile."

Aziraphale hadn't ever put it to himself like that. It was a rather dizzying, nauseating thought. "I...I think I see what you mean."

Crowley leaned back and closed his eyes. "I don't know what would have happened to those already damned if Adam hadn't called everything off. If heaven won, maybe there would have been some mercy for the humans, but more likely they would have stayed down there. If hell won, well, maybe the demons and the damned would have taken over heaven and the earth, but that probably would have resulted in a more spread out version of hell. The only thing certain is that no one would have ended up with any more souls than were already on the board or already claimed."

"Oh, my dear... But surely preserving a place where humanity can truly live, and choose, and experience real joys and pleasures like we just saw..."

The demon groaned. "That's just it, though. I'm not sure it balances out. If I thought the six in ten who make it to heaven were going to be really genuinely happy there, then maybe. Between earth and the afterlife, maybe then there'd be more good stuff than bad. But I don't have any confidence that heaven seems any better to them than it does to us, and there's _a lot_ of bad."

They were interrupted by the ringing of Crowley's phone from where he had tossed it down on the end table. Aziraphale glanced at it. He meant to ignore it - the demon's mind had clearly gone to a very dark place just now and they ought to talk it out. On the other hand, the caller ID said "Anathema", and he wasn't quite sure how to respond yet, so he answered.

"Anathema? Hello, dear girl. We're a bit busy at the moment, but if this is urgent..."

"It might be. Can you hand me over to Crowley?"

The angel passed the phone over.

Crowley coughed and put on his casual voice. "Yeah? What's up?"

"Adam and his friends said they wanted to talk to you. They said it was important. Are you near your computer?"

Crowley gave a long-suffering sigh, but opened up his laptop. A few seconds later he heard the ring that heralded an incoming video call. Adam's deceptively innocent face, crowned with golden curls, popped up. He was flanked by his little gang: Sticky Boy, Firebrand, and Tiny Accountant, as Crowley tended to think of them when their actual names slipped his mind.

"Hey kid. How are things?"

"Good. We're gonna to have a Save the Earth fair in Tadfield in August before school starts. You should come - it's gonna be brilliant."

The demon swallowed. "Oh?"

The kids must not have noticed his slightly queasy tone, as they launched in to their descriptions enthusiastically.

"There's going to be all sorts of games and a bake sale, actually," Wensleydale said, pushing his glasses up his nose. "To raise money."

Pepper nodded. "And my mum is going to give a talk about how climate change hurts poor women most. 'Cause of intersectionality and stuff."

"And Dog is going to do a taste-test of lower carbon pet foods," Adam added. "My dad says there's no whale in dogfood anymore, which is good. But some... Oh, hey, Uncle Zira!"

Aziraphale leaned over the demons shoulder and beamed at them. "Hello. I say, that reminds me: Crowley was just wondering if you think saving the world was the right thing to do?"

"What are you doing, Angel?" Crowley hissed under his breath.

"Well, they're the ones you should be asking, dear," Aziraphale replied quietly. "Humans, I mean."

Crowley groaned and turned back to the screen. The kids were staring at him.

"What kind of a stupid question is that?" Pepper said indignantly.

The demon struggled to articulate his thoughts in a way eleven-year-olds would understand. "Aarggh. Look. It's not...Of course I don't think we should have let everybody except you four die in a massive war. And I didn't want to have to fight Uncle Zira, and I'm very happy that we all still get to live on the earth where there's trees and dolphins and good stuff like...like ice cream, and movies and stuff. Yeah? But. The...the stuff that comes with that is what has me worried."

"Do you mean like the people who insist on starting normal wars, or generally being horrible?" Adam hazarded.

"Well, yeah, that's not great. But it's more what happens to them After. To everybody After, actually."

The Them blinked and looked at each other, clearly trying and failing to figure out what he was babbling about.

Crowley sighed. "OK, look. You've heard about heaven and hell, right?"

"Sure," Brian said. "My parents said if you're good you get to go to heaven. And if you're bad you have to go to hell and get punished."

Crowley nodded. "Right. The way the points get tallied up is both simpler and more complicated than most people think. But, anyway, most of the people who go Down There aren't, like, Hitlers. They didn't genocide anyone, they probably didn't even murder one person, they just added more unpleasantness to other people's lives than good things. And those people, well, they aren't exactly _happy_ , are they? They're usually lonely, miserable bas....er, individuals because nobody likes them. What's the _point_ in punishing them when they already make themselves unhappy? But as long as new people are being born, the numbers of those who get punished _forever_ will keep going up. And that doesn't seem right."

"This is part of that game we talked about, isn't it?" Adam asked. "Both sides trying to show whose gang is best?"

The demon grunted. "Yeah. With humans as the game pieces."

"Sounds to me like the rules of the game need to change."

Crowley stared at the former antichrist. "B...wh...Those have been the rules since the Beginning!" _Or at least since I screwed things up with that damn apple_. "They aren't just going to change!"

"I don't see why not," Adam insisted. "Just because things have always been one way doesn't mean they have to go on being that way."

"Yeah," Pepper added. "I mean, we used to play dodgeball at our school. But then some parents complained that too many kids were getting hurt..."

"Well, they did, the way _you_ play," Brian interrupted.

Pepper stuck her tongue out at him. " _Anyway_ , they complained, and the school said now we have to play kickball instead."

Crowley wondered who the parents were in this analogy. God? No - She'd have to be the headmistress, wouldn't She? Were they suggesting picketing the Almighty? That had never gone down well. But...the first War _had_ made a change, hadn't it? Not in a _good_ way, but it did argue against the unchangeable nature of things. And they - he and Adam and Aziraphale - _had_ argued successfully that even if it had been Written that the world would end in fire after 6000 years, that wasn't necessarily how things _had_ to go, given that the Great Plan could only be a subset of the Ineffable Plan.

"Huh. Yeah, you might have something there."

Adam frowned. "Are you OK, Uncle Crowley?"

"Pssh. Yeah. Why wouldn't I be OK?"

The kids looked at each other. Adam rolled his eyes. "Because you disappeared and didn't come to our play, and Miss Anathema and Uncle Zira seemed really worried about you."

"And you're asking odd questions and look awfully pale and twitchy for someone who's supposed to be on holiday." Pepper added.

"And because there were some weird people looking for you," said Brian.

Crowley shot to attention. " _What?_ What did these people look like?"

"Don't worry," Adam said cheerily. "We saw them off and didn't tell them anything."

"Saw them off? Adam, _what did you do_?"

The Them had been gathering outside Adam's house when the strangers turned up. Brian and Wensley were waiting on their bikes as Adam wrangled Dog into the basket of his. Pepper was on her way - you could tell by the clatter of the card stuck between the spokes of her wheel as she pedaled up the road.

"Hello, little girl."

Pepper braked hard, and glared at woman who had just stepped in front of her bike.

"Watch where you're going!"

The woman smiled, but it didn't quite reach her dark eyes. "So sorry. I wonder...have you seen a tall thin man in black around here? Red hair, dark glasses?"

Adam had looked up when he heard Pepper's bike stop, and was watching suspiciously. He was therefore caught slightly off guard when a rough voice behind him said: "Hail, son of Satan."

Adam turned, and gave Hastur a scornful look. "Not anymore. Why are you here?"

"Looking for the Serpent. Have you seen him?"

Before answering the question posed to her, Pepper glanced over at Adam. The figure talking to him looked even more suspicious than the woman in front of her.

"I'm...not sure", she said carefully. "Not recently, I don't think."

"Well, then...you don't happen to know of a witch who lives around here, do you?"

Pepper eyed the woman, who was wearing silver bat earrings, a long ruffly black dress topped with a crimson corset, and black lace gloves. "No. Is there some kind of Tadfield Goth Convention they forgot to advertise?"

"There's no snakes in Tadfield," Adam said. "Everyone knows that."

"Not _snakes_ , boy!" Hastur growled under his breath. " _The_ Serpent! That blessed traitor Crowley!"

"Haven't seen him," Adam said shortly. "You and your friend should be going now."

"Don't think you can dismiss _me_ , boy!"

Adam met Hastur's gaze, and for a moment the demon quailed. The former antichrist might have given up most of his world-shaping abilities, but reflected in those wide blue eyes there was more power than any normal witch or sorcerer could muster - enough to give even a Duke of Hell serious grief.

Then Adam blinked, and his eyes sparkled with more ordinary mischief.

"Dad!" he called loudly, backing away from the demon. Mr. Young looked up from washing his car.

"Dad, that man in the mac was acting weird, and asked if I'd seen his snake!"

Mr. Young caught sight of the extremely disreputable looking figure with the wild white hair and threw down his sponge. "Who the devil are you, and why are you talking to my son!"

Taking her cue, Pepper spotted an adult walking down the road and dashed towards him. "Hey, Mr. Tyler! That lady dressed like a vampire keeps asking if I know any witches!"

R.P. Tyler drew himself up and marched toward the intruder. "Now, see here, young woman! This is a respectable village, and we won't have your sort coming in here and upsetting our young people with your woowoo nonsense."

Rosacarnis groaned, and stalked off down the road toward Hastur, the irritating man with his yappy dog still trailing after her and jabbering on 9.

"Come on," she growled, yanking her colleague away from the approaching Mr. Young.

"Why? A fireball or two would deal with the old males."

"We are _not_ here to get into a thing with the former antichrist," she hissed. "We were here to keep a low profile and get information. If they don't have it, or don't want to tell us, we'll just have to find another way."

"Ah. Well. Nicely handled," Crowley remarked, after Adam and the Them had told a version of this story that was somehow both briefer and more convoluted. "I did try to tell Hastur he looked like a creeper in that coat 10. Are you _sure_ they're gone, though?"

Anathema leaned into frame. "Haven't picked up any signs of them. But we thought you should know."

"Thank you, my dear," Aziraphale said over Crowley's shoulder. "But if demons are visiting Tadfield, it might not be safe for you to stay there. I don't suppose any of your families are leaving for a summer holiday?"

"Mine is," Wensley said, "And Pepper said her mum was talking about going to Milton Keynes for research."

"Good. Adam, any chance you can use your powers of persuasion to help the other adults decide it would be a good idea to travel...or at least let their kids go on holiday with their friends?"

Adam grinned. "On it!"

Crowley's phone rang. "What the heaven is it now?" he muttered, snatching it up.

"Hey, mate," Constantine's voice said. "Mind if I pop down there tomorrow? I've got an idea we should probably discuss in person."

~~~

Angel, demon, and sorcerer sat around the kitchen table. The atmosphere of a serious high-security meeting was somewhat spoiled by the box of rabbit-shaped pastries from a local shop that the angel had placed in the middle. Not that Constantine was complaining. He brushed the crumbs off his lip and began.

"Right, then. I've been thinking about your Upstairs problem. The trouble there is that it is rather tricky to get leverage on most angels. But it could be possible to manufacture some."

"I'm not sure I like the sound of this," Aziraphale muttered. "But go on."

The sorcerer leaned closer. "So. There's this succubus I know..."

"How..." Crowley paused and shook his head. "Nope. Never mind, I don't want to know."

Constantine grinned. "As I was saying...Your main issue seems to be Gabriel. If you could get him to come down to earth for a bit, I could sic Chantinelle on him. If she managed to seduce him, that would be blackmail material worth your powers plus any other favor you might care to ask, I reckon. And, if he doesn't go for it, then Chantinelle gets to claim her points with hell, he probably _at least_ gets demoted, and you have someone new in charge to negotiate with."

Aziraphale frowned. "I don't know. It's awfully underhanded."

Crowley snorted. "I have absolutely no problem with tricking that twat. The problem is, it's never going to work."

"Have you met Ellie? She can impersonate a mortal quite effectively."

"I don't care if she can impersonate a bleeding seraph. Gabriel's never been attracted to anything - other than the sound of his own voice, maybe, and _certainly_ not a human."

Constantine looked at Aziraphale.

"I'm afraid Crowley's probably right," the angel said. "You should have seen his face when he found me ordering sushi. Absolutely repulsed. I sincerely doubt either Lust or Gluttony are among his vices. Vanity, maybe. The only 'material objects' he seems to like are fancy suits, and he has this whole 'my celestial body is a temple' thing going on."

"Pride and Wrath are _definitely_ on his vice list too," Crowley added. "I could sense that a mile off even if I didn't know him. But those three are so obvious that they're useless as blackmail material. He probably doesn't even recognize them as vices, if no one of his rank or higher has chewed him out over them."

Constantine sighed. "Ah well. I tried."

As he started to move in the direction of the door, Aziraphale said: "Just a moment, dear chap. It's a shame you coming all this way and having to run off so soon. Why not stay and explore the village for a bit?"

"Thanks, mate. But can't say antique shops and artisanal cheesemongers and such are really my scene."

"There is quite a nice pub down by the square. Why don't you two check it out, and I'll join you when I finish brewing this healing potion."

Constantine noticed a non-verbal exchange consisting mostly of eyebrow waggles passing between angel and demon. The latter turned to him and shrugged. "Sure. I'm game if you are, mortal."

The sorcerer echoed his casual tone. "Guess I wouldn't say no to a drink."

Aziraphale beamed. "Splendid! I'll see you in an hour or so, then." He gave Crowley a peck on the cheek, taking the chance to whisper: "Do pace yourself, dear. It wouldn't do to let the human poison himself trying to keep up."

"What was all that about?" Constantine asked some fifteen minutes later, as they pushed open the door of the Vat and Fiddle.

"Hmm?"

"All the meaningful looks and 'oh, don't run off so fast, dear chap'. Why is the angel so keen on us having a pint?"

"Ah." Crowley paused, and turned to the barman. "Theakston's Old Peculiar. And..."

"Er...Sussex Best for me. Ta."

The barman handed over their glasses and Crowley led the sorcerer over to a booth in the corner. Constantine noted it was one from which one could see the whole pub without being particularly visible oneself.

Crowley took a sip. He generally preferred wine to beer, but a brew like this, unfiltered and served from the same cask it was brewed in, had a certain nostalgic quality. What had the mortal asked? Ah, yes. "He thinks I need to spend more time with humans."

"Why?"

"Been gloomy lately. Questioning if we made the right decisions. I mean, we meant well, but given that some of the worst things I've done weren't _meant_ to be anything more than a bit of mischief..."

Constantine drained a third of his glass at once. "I hear you, mate. I hear you."

"Take that whole apple business. 'Get up there and make some trouble' they said. I didn't take it too seriously. How much trouble can you get into in a garden? Next thing I know your ancestors are getting chucked out on their ear and subjected to eternal judgment."

They finished their beers. Crowley ordered another round. 

"Your witch friend told me I have fewer souls on _my_ conscience than I think," Constantine remarked. "Could be complete bollocks, of course."

The demon shrugged. "She's probably right. You can't damn someone else, you know. I mean...God can, because She's the judge. A judge who never has to explain." Crowley grimaced. He'd never talked much about his own Fall, in part because he'd never been sure which question had been too much. Though he had his suspicions. He took a long drink, and shoved the thought back down in the dark filing cabinet of his mind where it usually lived. He continued: "Humans can give each other bad advice, of course, lead each other astray. Or they can convince themselves they aren't doing wrong. And demons, they can tempt people or even get them to sign over their souls explicitly."

Constantine raised an eyebrow. "They?"

"I'm retired. And even before that...after the whole apple incident, I, well, I tried to let your choices play out, you know? With only a little bit of a thumb on the scales. Was always sort of proud of you lot when it didn't work. Anyway, point is...no one can steal anyone else's soul." He eyed the sorcerer. "And just because some magical shenanigans got someone killed doesn't tell you anything about what happened to them after."

Constantine frowned, and spun his half-empty glass. "Anathema said she saw a girl who was like a star, and her soul was clean. She didn't know what it meant."

Crowley gave him a long look. "But that means something to you, hmm?"

"Yeah. Astra."

"Who's she?"

"My first big failure. An abused child whose anger and pain - and untrained magical talent - called up a demon to protect her. It wasn't just dangerous to those who'd hurt her, though it did do a number on them." The sorcerer rubbed a hand wearily over his face. "I thought I could call up a stronger demon to best it. But I went and got the name wrong, didn't I? Didn't bind him right. The bugger laughed at me and took her. Nothing left but her bloody arm. Ha. Literally." He downed the rest of his drink in one gulp. "There were six of us there in Newcastle that night. Maybe he cursed us, or maybe I'm the curse. Either way, I'm the only one left."

Crowley nodded slowly. "Couldn't say about that. But Anathema is right about the girl. Demons can't declare a human damned just by dragging them or their soul off to hell against their will. If they could, the lazy buggers'd be doing it all the time. If a child _did_ accidentally summon a demon, they're not contractually obligated if they are too young to understand what they're doing. And righteous anger is generally easily forgivable."

"I _saw_ it, though. I saw him take her!"

The demon grunted. "Yeah, well, _I_ thought I saw a shitload of things that didn't actually happen recently. And if a shapeshifter with a bit of a glamour on can fool _me_ , I don't think it would have taken much to fool a first-time demon summoner.

Constantine blinked at him. "So, Astra. She's not..."

"Nope," Crowley said, popping the 'p'."

The sorcerer considered this. "What about Zed, do you think?" he asked quietly.

"Oh, you mean 'The Mary'? The one the angel killed? Harder to say with adults. But...did you ever know her to do anything particularly heinous? Other than having the bad judgment to fall for you?"

Constantine shook his head. "Nah. I mean, I _did_ have to stop her from beating a guy to death once. But he was this pedo-Satanist who'd kidnapped my niece and killed three other girls, so that righteous anger thing probably applies. And anyway, the Resurrection Crusade made her do this whole repentance-cleansing thing. It would have just been the smell of me - and that demon taint in my veins - that had the angel flipping out."

"Mmm. Then odds are good she's not Down There either." The demon shrugged. "Of course, they might be watching 'the Sound of Music' on repeat - which is isn't much of an improvement. But I can guarantee that the kid at least isn't on fire or getting eaten by hellhounds or anything."

Constantine got up suddenly and went to the bar. He returned with a bottle of whiskey. He poured them two glasses.

"Well, cheers mate. Still not happy about how things went down, but..."

"Yeah, I know. The whole eternity idea was what was getting me down lately too."

"What was that bit about the 'Sound of Music'?"

"Oh, yeah. The entertainment options are a bit limited Up There, y'see. Come to think of it, that could be another one of those Archangel over-interpretation things."

"Hmm?"

"Well...The Almighty didn't really give that many direct instructions even in my day. Probably leaving Gabriel and those other humorless buggers in charge is what turned the place into a...a celestial corporate office."

Constantine tossed back his whiskey. "I did get my own back with that lying bastard. A bit. Not enough for what he took, though."

"Finally found out his name, did you?"

"Nergal," Constantine growled. "Bloody Nergal."

Crowley's eyebrows shot up. "What, seriously?"

Constantine eyed him curiously. "Why?"

"Rosacarnis is his daughter. Guess she learned a few things about deception from her old man."

The sorcerer looked thoughtful. "Mmm. Bloody interesting coincidence, innit?"

Crowley swirled the amber liquid in his glass. "Why do you do it?"

"Eh?"

"The magic. Pissing off both sides. Why?"

Constantine shrugged. "Dunno. Because it's in my blood? Or maybe because it's a thrill, every time. Can't buy yourself a better high than going up against something a million times more powerful than you, something that should be able to tear you to shreds...and whether by wit or trickery or luck, you win. And maybe because no one else - present company excepted, I suppose - can. I mean, most people don't have the slightest clue, do they? Do they even remember what almost happened last year?"

Crowley shook his head. "Nah. Minds blocked it out. Better that way, really."

"Damned right it is. But when you _can_ see...well, you have to look, don'cha? Can't just let people get killed and messed about like that." The sorcerer poured himself another whiskey. "M' no guidin' light, you know. I'm a rotten, low-down, cynical bastard. But some things aren't right."

The demon grinned. "Yeah? Tell me about it. Even when it's heaven doin' it."

Constantine slammed his glass down. "'Xactly! Doesn't matter who it is. And sometimes it takes another bastard to make the bastards pay, eh?"

Crowley hummed to himself. "Too true. Angel thinks I'm not, though."

"Hmm?"

"Thinks I'm good, even. I tell _him_ he's just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing."

Constantine snorted. "Accurate. But. He's probably right too, y' know."

"Oh, don't you start. Still...when he says it I kinda believe it. At least in that moment. And anyway...no reason to pretend to be more...more bastardish than I want, now, is there?"

"Uh huh. Y'know, I didn't always want to be this. Or at least not _just_ this."

"Yeah?"

The sorcerer nodded slowly. "Was in a band, once."

"No!"

"'S'true. _Mucous membrane_. You know Chaz? He was one of our roadies. Once called us 'posthumous heroes of the revolution that never was'."

The demon gave a wicked smile. "Oh, reeaally?"

When the angel wandered into the pub twenty minutes later, he was surprised to hear someone singing a folk song in a rough but not unpleasant voice. Was that...Crowley?

_Oh, all the money e'er I had, I spent it in good company_

_And all the harm I've ever done, alas, it was to none but me_

_And I've all I've done for want of wit, the memory now I can't recall_

_So fill to me the parting glass. Good night and joy be with you all!_

Yes, there he was, in the corner booth, warbling away like a drunken nightingale. Ever since Empusa's comment about songs, he'd been hoping he might be able to persuade Crowley to sing something under happier circumstances. This wasn't _quite_ what he'd pictured, but it would do for now.

Aziraphale heard Constantine chuckle. "Strewth, mate. You sound like a dying goat."

"Go on, then," Crowley said, slurring slightly. "I'd like to hear you do better."

The sorcerer cleared his throat and launched somewhat tunelessly into the next verse:

_Oh all the comrades e'er I had, they're sorry for my going away_

_And all the sweethearts e'er I had, they wish me one more day to stay_

_But since it falls into my lot, that I should rise and you should not_

_I gently rise, and softly call: Good night and joy be with you all!_

"Mmm. Of course, we're not likely to be _rising_ , either of us," Crowley commented.

"And you're one to talk about singing quality," Aziraphale said, approaching the booth. "Dying goat indeed! Evidently even brimstone is a better throat tonic than five packs a day."

Crowley grinned at the angel and waved his glass as he sang a slightly altered version of the last verse:

_If I had money enough to spend, and leisure time to sit awhile_

_There is a fair lad in this town, that sorely has my heart beguiled_

_His rosy cheeks, and ruby lips; I own, he has my heart in thrall_

_Then fill to me the parting glass; Good night and joy be with you all!_ 11

Aziraphale blushed, and couldn't resist planting a kiss on the demon's head.

Constantine chuckled into his glass. "Gaz was right. You two really are ridiculously cute."

"Shaddup," Crowley grumbled, though not very convincingly. "And if you see whoever this Gaz person is, tell him to shut up too."

~~~

Two mornings later, Aziraphale hopped out of bed and began to change out of his pajamas. He'd gotten a lot less self conscious about that sort of thing, though he still tended to face away from Crowley when he did it. A bit odd - if anything, there was more to look at on the rear side - but Crowley wasn't complaining. After all, he considered every bit of the angel to be completely fucking adorable, so new details to admire were always welcome. Why, there was even a sort of freckle near the crease where his left cheek met the thigh that looked a bit like a heart, and... Crowley's thoughts ground to a halt as he realized he'd noticed that before. And the faint stretch marks over the hip, just barely visible. And that constellation of smaller dots, though he hadn't noticed that they resembled the Pleiades. They'd been harder to see then, under the blood.

He could feel the horror and rage bubbling up again, but he shoved it down and tried to marshal his words carefully. "Um...Angel..."

"Yes, dear?"

"In the past few decades, you haven't developed a habit of - oh, I don't know - sunbathing naked on the roof or something, have you?"

Aziraphale paused in doing up his trousers and blinked at him. "What?"

"So that's a no, then? No, like, outdoor nudity of any kind?"

The angel frowned. "What's got into you?" He knew Crowley's flirtatious tone, and this wasn't it. He was doing the carefully casual thing - _oh, no reason, just wondering_ \- and Aziraphale had no idea why. "As if this were the climate for that sort of thing, anyway. Really, the idea!"

"Right, right. Sorry. Don't know where that thought came from."

Where it had come from, of course, was the realization that hell didn't have the kind of surveillance setup to be able to get details like that right. And yet, _somehow_ , they had.

Aziraphale had arranged a video chat with Anathema that morning to get a few more of her charm and potion recipes. Crowley went out to the garden to try and work out his anger, or to stuff it back away in a corner of his subconscious. But he couldn't do it this time, and all the other angry memories came out to play. Aziraphale trying and mostly failing to convince himself that floods, plagues, rains of burning sulfur, and other manifestations of heavenly wrath were justified and part of the Plan. The hurt and shame on the angel's face when he got one of those passive-aggressive notes from Gabriel that chastised him for "frivolous miracles" or that laid out his instructions in condescending detail. The way the he would beat himself up for not helping enough during some massive human tragedy, even though the limits placed on ethereal interventions were far below what was needed or even what might have passed unnoticed. The utterly unnecessary self-doubt that Crowley had spent centuries trying to unravel about his competence, his looks, his enthusiasms and desires. The other angels hadn't wanted to listen to Aziraphale's attempts to gain earth a reprieve. They'd treated him as an idealistic idiot. They'd _punched_ him. They'd told him to "shut up and die already". And _now_ , just as the two of them seemed to be free, to have put all that behind them, heaven pulls this shit. Forgiveness paired with vulnerability, so that hell can do their dirty work for them. And not just leaving hell to it, but assisting in the most underhanded, privacy-violating way possible. No. There _needed_ to be a reckoning 12.

And so, after utterly terrifying the plants for half an hour, he found himself picking up a flat rock and carving a symbol into it with a fiery digit. Not his own sigil, but the symbol from the book of Soyga. He stared at it, daring it to do something. And then he felt it - just the faintest tug in the direction of the road. West. Crowley strode out the gate, following the pull. In the beginning he stopped occasionally, spinning around to make sure he had the right path. But the tug grew stronger with every stride, and soon there was no doubt. And then, suddenly, it stopped. Crowley looked up at the massive ash that stood a few feet in front of him. Long before there were escalators, or even proper stairs, many humans had thought that trees might be the bridge between realms. Some, like this one, actually were. Crowley laid his hand on the bark and felt the shimmer that marked a thin place. He smiled grimly, and stepped forward and _through_.

"Have you got all that?" Anathema asked.

Aziraphale ticked off the ingredients on his list. "Quartz crystal, nutmeg, frankincense, orris root, saltpeter, sandalwood, and birch bark. What then?"

"You tie it up in a red cloth bag and leave it for a week. Then, when you need it, you take out a pinch and burn it with the flame of a white candle."

"And this is supposed to lend spiritual strength?" the angel said skeptically.

Anathema shrugged. "So Agnes' recipe says."

"Enough for fighting demons?"

"Er...I don't know about _that_. But with an angel doing the mixing, who knows? We're experimenting here, after all."

"Yes, well, at least this one I don't have to _eat_. That last potion sounded absolutely..."

Aziraphale stopped in the middle of that sentence.

"Everything all right?" Anathema asked.

That was the question, wasn't it? Because Aziraphale was suddenly aware that the angry ball of demonic energy that had been pulsing in the garden when they started out was no longer there. In fact, he didn't sense Crowley anywhere near the cottage.

"Uh...I'm going to have to call you back, my dear," he said hurriedly, ending the call.

The angel hurried out to the front gate and concentrated. Nothing.

_No, no, no! Not again! Auggh, and you_ saw _he was upset and you let yourself get distracted. Of all the stupid, careless..._

THERE.

To the angel's furiously straining, carefully attuned ethereal senses, that distant flash of occult energy was as good as a flare.

He found the demon staggering out of the woods two miles down the road.

"Crowley! _There_ you are! I was worried sick!"

"Sorry, Angel. I'm fine, really." This was obviously not quite true: the demon was limping slightly, and looked like he had a sunburn. That was a bit odd, given that few things could burn a demon, and certainly nothing as dim and distant as the _sun_. It was a very short and specific list.

Aziraphale frowned as he held out a hand to lend assistance. "What the _hell_ did you just _do_?"

Crowley grimaced at the touch, but leaned on him anyway. "Arrgh. Can I tell you back at the cottage?"

Crowley sighed as he leaned back in the cold bath laced with the healing potion Anathema had taught the angel last week. "Ah, that's better. Though I could probably do with a bit of aloe vera, after. There's some growing by the back porch. The one with the spotty spear-shaped leaves with the teeth on the edges."

Aziraphale gave him a look. "Crowley. What. Happened?"

The demon shifted guiltily. "I _might_ have gone to give Gabriel a piece of my mind. It seems your form shielded me a bit more up there last time than I realized."

Aziraphale's jaw dropped. "You decided to go marching into _heaven_ to yell at an _Archangel_? Crowley!! What did I say about you taking stupid risks without telling me!"

The demon flinched. "Yes, I know, I know. I just...I realized they were spying on you in ways that really shouldn't be allowed, and I lost my temper. To be honest, I think they were far too confused that I was even up there to attack me."

"You could have been killed!" The angel's lip wobbled, and his indignation turned rather suddenly into tears.

Crowley gripped his hand, though his own burnt fingers shrieked in protest. It was small enough penance for having made his angel cry. "I know. I'm _really_ sorry. I'm not trying to get myself killed, honest. I just wasn't thinking straight. I _promise_ I won't do it again."

"You'd better not," Aziraphale sniffled.

"You know," Crowley said slowly, in the way that often preceded a thought that was dangerous, entertaining, or both, "For what it's worth, I don't think Gabriel is in on it."

"What makes you say that?"

"He's a smug bastard, but he's at least as bad a liar as you. And he didn't look like he knew what I was talking about when I accused Michael spying on you and dumping me Down Below. Which actually gave me an idea."

Aziraphale looked suspicious. "Oh?"

"Yeah. Now, we _might_ have to try to get Empusa to take on a new role, but I think we could lean on her to do it. And...are you still in touch with your mate Raziel?"

"I think I could manage to communicate with him. Why?"

"We're going to need someone to deliver an anonymous note to Gabriel, and I have a hunch he'd be on board for it."

1\. Technically normal maggots are "flesh eating", but only for dead flesh. They can even be used to safely clean wounds. Hastur's versions are more like a cross between screwworms and piranhas. Back

2\. We command you, Empusa - no longer dare to deceive. Begone, and do not speak (of what was spoken here). Back

3\. Some demons, when straying into the realm of softer feelings, get things a bit tangled up. In Empusa's case this involved an attraction toward goodness getting linked up with hunger, such that the thought "I like you - you seem really nice" was for a while indistinguishable from "You smell delicious". Possibly being a mother provided a strong incentive to learn the difference. She clearly hasn't got it entirely sorted out in the case of humans, but is getting there. Back

4\. Well, of course they didn't summon Empusa in their own rented backyard. Incidentally, halfway between Winchester and Maidstone, there is a town called Crawley. Totally coincidental, and unrelated to any demons, I'm sure. Back

5\. X-rays of pregnant kiwis are kind of horrifying: https://www.audubon.org/news/why-kiwis-egg-so-big Back

6\. Aziraphale had asked why Crowley kept trying when the dreams got so bad. The response was: "Because I couldn't Down There, and I'm fucking exhausted, and I'll be twice damned if I let them take this from me!"Back

7\. Crowley drank all of the coffee and ate one of the pancakes (which were actually pretty good), wordlessly pushing the other two across the table to extend the time he got to spend watching Aziraphale eat.Back

8\. Morning has broken, like the first morning; Black bird has spoken, like the first bird... https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hdYwk0dtg28 Back

9\. Higher ranking demons do get priority in re-corporation department, but it had still taken her more than a week to get a new body. She didn't care to get pitchfork holes in it just yet.Back

10.Hastur had taken this as a compliment. Crowley had then tried to explain that being a creeper was not the same as being a champion lurker or just generally being creepy, but had given it up halfway through. If humans wanted to stay away from Hastur on sight, that was all for the best, regardless of their reasoning for doing so. Back

11\. Once again, the Pogue's rendition is probably the best approximation of what this sounded like: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rMfb_0Cg7jQ Back

12\. It seems quite likely that an older pain added it's own emotional weight to that pile. But Crowley was far too preoccupied over the wrongs done to the best angel in the whole blessed host (in his _utterly_ unbiased opinion) to be consciously aware of any personal grievances at the time. Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The invocations here and in the previous chapter are mixed-and-matched from this list of translated exorcisms, so hopefully the Latin is better. https://www.traditioninaction.org/religious/b014rpExocrcism.htm. There seems to be an excess of accents, but since it helps the pronunciation I left them in.
> 
> There's no particular indication in the Good Omens canon that angels or demons can reproduce, other than a note the "younger" demons like to go ice-skating on the frozen door-to-door salesmen that pave the road to hell (and of course the antichrist himself). It is, however, a feature of demons in multiple mythologies as well as the Hellblazer comics. (See 'Divine Misconceptions' by Jessthereckless on this site for a funny treatment of a Crowley pregnancy scare. Borrowed the winged snake image from there).
> 
> The suggestion Constantine comes up with for compromising Gabriel is an actual storyline in the Hellblazer comics. But the Good Omens version of Gabriel doesn't seem likely to be tempted in that manner.
> 
> My favorite type of protagonist is one who doesn't believe they are a particularly good or nice person and yet has a sense of duty or a persona code that makes them do the right thing even when that isn't their first natural impulse; their awareness of their flaws is what keeps those flaws on a leash. Terry Pratchett has written a bunch of these: Commander Vimes and Granny Weatherwax spring to mind. My second favorite is the person who is genuinely and naturally nice, and who is therefore underestimated by people who think that means they are weak; But, it turns out, they will stand up to authority, especially when that authority is trying to tell them something is good that is clearly terrible. So of course I love Good Omens, which has both! It was fun to write two of the first sort bonding here, even if John Constantine is almost too flawed to count*. Almost, but not quite.  
> * - My type 1 isn't really an anti-hero. They look like a hero to any outside observer who can see past their grumpiness, they just don't see themselves that way.


	9. The road to Damascus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> * Feels like there should maybe be a TW for invasive stuff involving personal images, but I'm really not sure what to call it. The situation isn't exactly voyeurism or blackmail or revenge porn, but it does share some similarities with those things.

Gabriel was having what some humans colorfully referred to as a 'come to Jesus moment'. This was a bit unexpected; as an Archangel, he'd always assumed he was already There, as it were. That was probably why it had taken quite a while to reach this point, and why it was so unpleasant.

It had started roughly three months ago - by earth time - when Zerachiel, the head of Earth Observations bumped into him in the hallway.

"Good morning, sir!" the tall, skinny angel said cheerily. "Oh, I was meaning to tell you - the test is going splendidly!"

Gabriel's brow furrowed. "What test?"

"Sorry, I should have been more specific. The test of the Principality Aziraphale. What he'd do without his powers. You didn't say when you wanted the report, but the results so far are very encouraging."

"That wasn't a _test_ ," Gabriel replied irritably, "I just didn't want to have to deal with that traitor's paperwork."

"Oh." The angel looked a bit crestfallen. "Still, I wonder if you could give me permission to access the emotion and virtue level files for the demon Crowley."

"Demons don't _have_ virtues."

"Ah, yes, that's what I always assumed as well!" The record-keeper's wide blue eyes sparkled behind their spectacles 1. "In researching Aziraphale I looked into his associates...and the file does exist! But I can't access it, or the emotion files, without Archangelic permission."

"Just leave it alone, Zerachiel," Gabriel said firmly.

Zerachiel didn't leave it alone. Several earth-weeks later, they nervously placed two files on Gabriel's desk.

"What's this?" the Archangel asked.

"Now, sir, I know you said I should drop it, and I deeply apologize for not following your instructions. But, sir, you _need_ to read these reports."

As Gabriel began flicking through the files, Zerachiel continued: "The Principality Aziraphale has been doing remarkably well at maintaining his positive impact on humans without miracles. Everything from brightening a customer's day with the perfect book to saving a man from being hit by a train. The numbers are lower, but the individual impacts are up - something about the personal touch, I hypothesize. They feel valued because they see _a person_ helping them, instead of assuming the good thing was just random chance. As for the demon...well, it's quite remarkable. He displays measurable levels of at least five of the seven principal virtues 2. Mostly in relation to Aziraphale, but not exclusively. There's a rather astounding amount of charity toward humans, for instance. And the love readings! I started with the dial turned up, thinking that even given the behaviors I'd read about in his other files it would be hard to detect, if it was there at all. I got blasted across the room. We very rarely get readings that high in _humans_ , and for a demon...well, it blows a lot of our current theories clear out of the water!"

Gabriel frowned. "How did you get these files? I distinctly remember _not_ giving you the access code."

"Er, from Michael, sir."

"Michael?"

"Yes, sir. I happened to mention the matter to them, and they gave me access to both sets of emotion files before I could even finish explaining why I wanted them." A troubled look crossed Zerachiel's face. "It was odd, actually. The first thing they asked when I finished Aziraphale's report was: 'Is he miserable?' They seemed disappointed when I said 'No', and then had the oddest look when I mentioned the demon's love readings. Is there...is there something going on we should know about, sir? I know I misinterpreted what you were doing in taking away the Principality's powers, and I just want to make sure I'm on the right page now."

Gabriel waved a hand. "Thank you, Zerachiel. You've been very diligent, but there is no need to trouble yourself with the matter further."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

A few weeks after that, Gabriel had been approached by Selaphiel, the head of the Prayers department. "There's, um, a prayer for you, sir," she said nervously. "I know we usually just send a summary for the week, but this one is a bit, um, unusual. And it is sort of directed to Michael, too, but you seem to be the primary, er, target." She twirled a bit of dark hair around her finger nervously.

Gabriel sighed. "Let's hear it."

"It's um, not exactly reverent. If you prefer, I could paraphrase..."

"I said, let's hear it."

Nervously, the angel turned on the recording. At a guess, the voice was that of a human female, speaking American English:

_It's been a long time since I've done this, but...OK. Archangel Gabriel, hearken to my prayer. Now listen up, buddy. I saw you at the airbase. I did not appreciate you and your hellish counterpart badgering Adam to re-start Armageddon, but I could understand that you thought that was your job. But helping to kidnap my friend? That is a new low. Now, I happen to have Seen that it was Michael who did the actual kidnapping - Archangel Michael, I hope you're hearkening too, asshole - but as I understand it you're the boss. Poor Aziraphale is worrying himself to death. So you'd better fix it. Er. Amen._

Gabriel blinked. "Not reverent is right. Who was this from?"

"Er, it says 'Anathema Device'. I asked Zerachiel to look her up. She's a witch, technically, but not affiliated with the Opposition. That is, she's not a Satanist or anything, and the only demon she summons is the one who hangs out with Aziraphale. Said summoning is by phone, to have lunch with the former antichrist. They seem to be checking up to be sure he _isn't_ turning evil again."

Gabriel cast his mind back to the Armageddon-that-wasn't. He vaguely remembered some humans being present at the airbase, but his attention had been primarily focused on the young antichrist, secondarily on the traitor and his demon associate. "And what's all this about Michael and a kidnapping?"

Selaphiel scratched her head. "Not sure, sir. But I do recall my friend Nanael from Earth Agent Communications telling me she patched Aziraphael through to the Archangel Michael. She didn't hear what the conversation was about, but said Aziraphael seemed quite angry."

Gabriel had read enough of Zerachiel's carefully prepared reports to know that there was probably only one being whose disappearance would lead Aziraphale to angrily call up an Archangel. He really didn't want to think about that pair of irritants, but he supposed he should check on what was going on.

"You wanted to see me?"

Gabriel turned away from the window. "Michael. Yes. I know this is a strange question, but...did you _do_ something to the demon Crowley?"

Michael's handsome, gold-spangled face remained impassive, save for a raised eyebrow. "Why do you ask, brother?"

"Well, it has come to my attention that Aziraphale and a human friend of his think you kidnapped him."

Michael shrugged. "As I told Aziraphale, he probably just got bored and wandered off."

"Hmm." Gabriel kept his face as carefully blank as Michael's. But he knew they were lying. Michael had seen Zerachiel's reports too; they knew the demon was ridiculously devoted to the traitor. "Not an unreasonable guess, but I checked - he's not anywhere else on earth either."

"Well, perhaps his old colleagues decided to have another try at teaching him a lesson," Michael said carelessly. "Either way, it isn't really our problem, is it?"

"No, I suppose not," Gabriel replied. But the conversation kept niggling at his mind for some time afterward. His sibling was clearly not telling him the whole truth - but why?

He was mostly able to forget about it for a while, until the demon showed up at the gates. The look on his face had made the Gate Guardians rather nervous. After all, no demon had dared approach heaven voluntarily in millennia. And they had heard stories about this one. The way he was shifting his weight from one foot to another was concerning as well. It _might_ be because the floor burned him, but it looked disconcertingly like he was preparing to leap at someone.

"I want to talk to your boss!" Crowley snarled.

"Umm..."

The demon rolled his eyes theatrically. "Not Her! She barely talks to you lot, from what I hear. I mean that violet-eyed twat Gabriel!"

The Archangel was called, and as he arrived in the antechamber he found the demon hovering on inky wings in the center of the room.

"Always the dramatic one, aren't you, Serpent." Well, two could play at that game. Gabriel unfurled two pairs of wings. Multiple pairs of purple eyes glinted among the white feathers, as they beat in a complex pattern that lifted him smoothly up off the ground. "Rather foolhardy, isn't it, invading heaven all on your own?"

"Invading? Please," Crowley snorted. "Like I want anything to do with _this_ boring place. It looks like a car dealership with no cars...From what I hear, I mean. No, I'm here to complain about your blessed hypocrisy."

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. "You're steaming."

"Damn right, I am!" Crowley snarled.

"No, I mean..." He waved a hand at the wisps of smoke or steam that were rising up off the demon's wings and shoulders.

"Shut up," Crowley snapped. "You think I care about _that_ after what just happened?"

The Archangel shrugged, which was quite a feat to manage while flying. "Whatever revenge hell might care to take, it isn't my concern. Anyway, you clearly managed to escape them."

"Arrgh! I'm not here about _them_ or about _me_ , I'm here about _Aziraphale_. He needs his powers back."

"Why? The last report I saw said he was content enough."

Crowley gnashed his teeth. "Because he's still an angel, and he's in danger without them. I'll do anything in my power to keep him safe. But do you _really_ want to farm out protection of one of your own to a demon? How does that look? And as you said...my old side wants their revenge. Believe me, they know the best way to hurt me would be to hurt him."

Gabriel's brow furrowed. "Surely not." He didn't _like_ Aziraphale, but hell thinking they could torment _any_ angel was a bad precedent.

"You don't think hell has _scruples_ , do you, mate? If they think your lot have withdrawn their protection, he's fair game. And someone Up Here's been spilling some very personal information about him to hell. Out of the more classified Earth Observation files, if I had a guess."

"What?"

"Not your order? Then it look like you've got a mole. I'd have a look at Michael, personally. They were the ones that dumped me Down There, after all." Crowley's dark wings lashed the air. "I don't care what happens to me. But if I go down, I want to know Aziraphale can look after himself. So put your house in order, mate!" And with that, the demon shot back out the gate and disappeared.

Gabriel tried not to show it to the gaping Gate Guardians, but the conversation had shaken him. Had Michael really been going behind his back to this extent? That was troubling; the last time Archangels had lied to each other and made their own plans, things had gone bad frighteningly quickly. Well, there was one way to find out. He made his way to the Earth Observation Office, and pulled the record keeper aside.

"Zerachiel, has anyone asked you for level 1 or 2 files on Aziraphale?"

Zerachiel blinked at him. "No, sir. Why would they? And you'd need Archangel-level clearance for those anyway."

Gabriel nodded. "Hmm. Can you check if anyone accessed them without telling you?"

The record-keeper looked distressed. "But...why wouldn't they tell me?"

"I know. It's probably nothing. But just check for me."

God may be omniscient, but angels are not. And since almost everything that happens in heaven is delegated to angels, they need a way to access relevant information without getting overwhelmed. Thus, the Earth Observation Office resembles a state-of-the-art surveillance agency crossed with a massive digital library. As any stake-out cop will tell you, surveillance is mostly excruciatingly boring. A lot of the Observations in question are things like a tumbleweed slowly moving across the desert or a lion eating a zebra. That gets classed as level 0, and filtered out 3. Another big chunk of the Observations involve sentient beings but are not very useful. No one really needs to see billions of hours of humans eating, sleeping, wanking, reading, watching TV, and so forth. Activities where exercising a sin or virtue is impossible or close to it, such as sleep, get classed as level 1, while those that _might_ include something important but probably don't 4 get classed as level 2. Anyone trying to access either of these levels for humans had to justify their request to Zerachiel. Anyone trying to access these or the sin, virtue, or emotion files for a supernatural entity needed additional Archangel-level permission. After all, if earth agents knew their colleagues could spy on them at any time for no reason, heaven might have had another revolt on its hands 5.

Gabriel waited, drumming his fingers impatiently on Zerachiel's desk. When the record-keeper returned, they looked deeply troubled. "Sir, I'm sorry to report that hundreds of the private files you mentioned were opened recently without my knowledge. Several were _copied_. Including these."

They laid two still images on the desk. One appeared to be Aziraphale in the act of getting dressed, pale plump rear and lack of Effort plainly visible. The other featured the angel and his demon companion shirtless in the bookshop. Their wings were out, and Aziraphale appeared to be licking the demon's nipple with some relish.

Gabriel grimaced, and dropped the pictures as if they were on fire. "Urrgh."

Really, the whole _eating_ thing had been bad enough. He had been trying very hard not to picture what those two degenerates got up to in their private time. But _someone_ had gone looking. And the idea that these pictures might have been turned over to hell was beyond mortifying.

Zerachiel clutched their short dark hair and their wings trembled. "I'm terribly sorry, sir; It's an awful breach of protocol! I don't know how this happened. The only way would be...would be..."

The loophole, of course, is that if an Archangel, or someone an Archangel had granted access privileges to, slipped past Zerachiel unnoticed, they could access whatever they wanted.

Zerachiel's blue eyes grew wide as they realized this. "But why didn't they just _ask_?" they wailed. "An Archangel would have to have a good reason to see these...wouldn't they?"

"Thank you, Zerachiel," Gabriel said, rising. "I will get to the bottom of this. In the meantime, just...pull yourself together. And don't let it happen again."

Gabriel knew he should confront Michael, but felt extremely reluctant to do so. Michael had always been his strong right wing, the head of the host who had thrown down Lucifer and the other renegades and helped Gabriel bring stability and order back to heaven. What did it mean if they were lying to him now? Was this his fault? He'd always know Michael had contacts in hell, the back channels Gabriel had always officially denied existed. Michael had never been afraid to get their hands dirty. But it had always been to back Gabriel up...hadn't it?

Well, Michael wasn't the only Archangel, of course. He visited Sandalphon first. "Hey, brother! Quick question...you have any special projects on lately I should know about?"

Sandalphon pursed his lips. "Well, helping Michael get all the gear back and stowed away in the armory took up the first few months after that not-Armageddon debacle. Now I'm back on to composing hymns of praise for the human souls to sing to Her. Do you want to hear the latest?"

"Maybe another time, champ. I'm a bit busy right now. So...you haven't been doing anything related to earth? Or hell?"

The Archangel snorted. "No, thank _here_. I think we've all had enough of _that_ for the time being, don't you?"

He visited Uriel next, who was going over earth agent reports. "Sister! Hey...You have a minute?"

She sighed, and put down her pen. "I suppose."

"I'll get right to the point. You haven't been looking up Aziraphale in the Earth Observation files, have you?"

Uriel's smooth dark brow creased in puzzlement. "No. I thought the whole point of cutting that traitor off was so we wouldn't have to think about him."

She was right - that had been the point. But it seemed to have backfired spectacularly. "Right. Good. Just checking."

The next day, Gabriel got called down to the Gates once more.

While it wasn't as dramatic an event as the appearance of the demon, the Gate Guardians had been surprised to see Aziraphale again. The Principality had been friendly but firm in his insistence on seeing the Archangel, and his soft features took on an unusually stern expression as Gabriel came into view.

"Why are you here, Aziraphale? Your...friend already delivered the message about why you want your powers back."

"I don't want them back. Or, rather, while I certainly wouldn't _mind_ having them back, that's not why I'm here."

Gabriel sighed. "Then what _do_ you want?"

Aziraphale raised his chin and he looked Gabriel square in the eye. "In your message, you said you had received orders from Her not to harm me. Or to interfere with the life I've chosen. Was that true?"

"Yes. That was the gist."

"Well, part of what I've chosen - one might say the most important part - is Crowley. That would imply that he, at least indirectly, is included in Her favor. And he should be! He didn't just invite me to thwart hell's plans regarding the antichrist; I haven't _ever_ had to do much thwarting where he's concerned because he never actually _wanted_ to damn anybody. Moreover, he's always shown far more concern for human life than any Archangel."

Gabriel frowned. "I doubt that."

"You _drowned children_! Sandalphon incinerated two whole cities with burning sulfur! And I had nod and try to justify it, but _he_ knew it was wrong, and so did I."

"Careful, Aziraphale."

"Why?" Aziraphale replied sharply. "If it wasn't wrong to try to thwart the Big One, why shouldn't I question all the little apocalypses? Were they _ever_ really Her will?" He took a deep breath. "Anyway. My complaint is this. I'm handicapped currently when it comes to thwarting hellish plans. And that's a problem, because Crowley's not a tool of Satan anymore. He's free to do good now, and hell would destroy him for it. That's something that should be allow to happen. But not only are you lot _not_ thwarting, Michael has been actively assisting! You know that, I think. So what are you going to do about it?"

"Are you trying to give me orders, Principality?"

Aziraphale's grey eyes narrowed. "I am merely informing you that I am planning on doing everything in my power, diminished as it is, to keep Crowley safe. And if that should fail...well, at least _I_ won't be the one who contradicted the first direct divine order in a century through inaction. Good day to you."

The Principality nodded firmly, and turned for the stairs.

Gabriel, feeling slightly dazed, watched him go. While this wasn't the first time his former employee had argued with him, he wasn't used to an Aziraphale who didn't dither _at all_. Then he noticed the Gate Guardians. "What are you two whispering about?"

"Er, nothing, sir!" Nithael replied, straightening up and tossing off a salute for good measure.

"Nothing?" The Guardians squirmed under Gabriel's amethyst gaze.

"Well..." Muriel admitted, "I was just saying it was rather beautiful, sir. Sort of like the Gift of the Magi."

Gabriel frowned. "I fail to see how discs of earth metal or fragrant tree sap relate to anything that just happened."

"No, sir. It's a different human story. There's a man and his wife who are very poor, but each wants to get the other something special for Christmas. The husband trades his father's old watch to get these fancy combs for his wife to put in her beautiful long hair. But he doesn't realize that at the same time she's selling her hair to a wigmaker to be able to buy him a chain to put the watch on."

Gabriel blinked at them. The Gate Guardians could tell he was still confused about what this tale - which seemed to him to illustrate the absurdity of exchanging material objects - had to do with his pain-in-the-ass former employee.

Nithael stepped into the breach. "See, it's supposed to show how each values the other above themself. They'd each give up the one beautiful thing they have to make the other happy. That's kinda like what Aziraphale and his demon are doing, right? Waving off their own difficulties to insist on the other's problem being fixed first. Even risking their lives to do so, in the case of the demon, which...Well, sir, I know you were annoyed at us for not properly preparing to smite him, but...did you ever expect to see that?"

Gabriel's eyes narrowed. "Where did you hear this story in the first place?"

"Uhh...A book?" Muriel shifted her wings nervously.

"A book. Where did you get a book of human stories?"

"Er, don't remember, sir." She did, but figured 'From Aziraphale. What? It gets really boring guarding a gate no one ever attacks!' was not an answer that would go over well right now.

Gabriel sighed. "Whatever. Just stop gossiping and get back to your posts."

Gabriel stalked through the halls of heaven, fuming. After a while, he realized he had wandered clear out of the main administrative building and into a wide courtyard. Two other Archangels, Jophiel and Zadkiel, sat beneath a wide tree beside a fountain. They looked more like siblings than the others did, both being slim and olive-skinned, with long dark curls. Jophiel's wings were silver-tipped, and her eyes were a deep garnet, while Zadkiel's eyes were deep blue and his feathers flecked with gold. Gabriel spent much less time with them than with Michael, Uriel, and Sandalphon, as both were more inclined to contemplation than to monitoring or interfering with events on earth.

Jophiel gave Gabriel a gentle smile. "You look troubled, brother. What's the matter?"

Gabriel found himself beginning to rant. "I just...I don't know how this happened! Aziraphale...have you met him? The former Guardian of the eastern gate of Eden? Arrgh, _that_ was a disaster of an assignment! Anyway...he was always a bit of a disappointment. Soft, too interested in earthly things, annoyingly _earnest_. But harmless, you know? And apparently loyal. Then all of a sudden he's openly siding with a demon to thwart the Great Plan, spitting hellfire at his superiors, beginning a passionately requited romance with said demon...and apparently that's just fine. That's _just peachy_ as far as She's concerned! So I say - all right. He can do what he likes, I just don't want to hear about it. He doesn't get to hand out miracles on heaven's behalf, and I don't have to get a pile of receipts whenever he decides the wine he ordered wasn't good enough and needs to be improved, or some prospective book-buyers are being annoying and need to go elsewhere, or whatever other frivolous thing comes into his head. And maybe that would have been fine; Aziraphale actually didn't seem to care. But then Michael - my own sibling, my _rock_ \- decides to go behind my back and start dealing with hell. Handing over the demon, handing over personal information about a fellow angel... Now I've got both of them - Aziraphale and the demon Crowley, I mean - showing up here to disrespect me, I've got their human friends cursing me out in their prayers. To make it worse, I swear the Gate Guardians, and the Prayer department, and even Zerachiel are siding with them. It's a fucking nightmare."

Zadkiel inclined his head sympathetically. "Yes, I can see that it is a difficult situation. But...what is it exactly that makes you so angry?"

Gabriel's mouth opened and closed soundlessly for a moment. Wasn't it obvious?

"Forgive me, brother," Zadkiel said. "It's just...it sounded almost as if you were angry at our Mother's mercy toward Aziraphale."

"I...No! That's not what I meant!"

Gabriel felt Jophiel's keen eyes on him. She pursed her lips. "Hmm. Then tell us, brother, why are you upset that others - angel or human - feel that Aziraphale and his demon have suffered an injustice, and sympathize with them? And why does it sound like you are angrier with Michael for not telling you their plan to hurt Aziraphale through harming this Crowley than for having such a plan in the first place?"

Gabriel sank down on the edge of the fountain, not even noticing that the tips of his wings were trailing in the water. "I... It's just...I've always tried so hard to uphold Her rules, to keep order and peace in heaven, to fulfill the Plan. Everything was falling apart after the first War. I pulled it all together, I made it work! I cast the rebels out of my heart, as well as out of heaven. But now it feels like _no one_ cares about rules anymore! Not Aziraphale, or that blasted antichrist brat, or Michael, or even Her! Since when does defying Her plan get you a pat on the back and the chance to just fuck off and do what you like?"

"Well, from what I've heard, Aziraphale always had more faith in Her and in Goodness in general than he did in Plans and rules," Zadkiel remarked, a twinkle in his sea-blue eyes.

"As for Her rules," Jophiel said, "Well, those have always been a bit..."

"Don't you dare say 'ineffable'," Gabriel growled, his head in his hands.

"Well, then, let's say it requires discernment to see the patterns. I've been thinking about it, lately. Ever since the End Times that weren't. Look at Her most beloved among the humans...how many would you say were good at propriety, and keeping to the letter of the law?" She watched Gabriel consider this. "Virtually none, right? They're all hugely annoying to the authorities of their time, because they trust in love and justice and mercy over mere laws and customs. And those humans who are so sure they know what She wants that they will abuse those around them to see it done...do they usually turn up here?"

Gabriel _had_ been sure. For so long, he had been sure that he was doing right, that, as chief Archangel, he couldn't do anything _other_ than right. To question, to set a foot wrong, was to Fall, and so he would see to it that none under his charge did so. If he was hard, well, he _had_ to be hard. Narrow was the path of righteousness. Or so he had thought. Had he become that whited sepulcher: beautiful on the outside, and inside full of the old bones of pride and bitterness?

If he had been Crowley, his next thought would have been: _Then why didn't She tell me I was doing wrong? Why didn't either of_ you _clever-tits point it out? Wisdom and mercy, my ass! Why did everyone powerful enough for an arrogant wanker like me to respect just clam up and let me keep going?_ But Gabriel wasn't in the habit of thinking like that. Questioning his own actions was a big enough step. If he had failed, if he had been wrong, it must be _his_ failure, not the fault of the way the system as a whole was structured.

Gabriel stood, and dried his wings. "Thank you for your council, siblings. I will reflect on what you have said."

Gabriel wandered back to his desk. He sank into his chair, feeling exhausted and lost, unmoored. Without the foundation of his moral certainty, what was he? Then his eye fell on an envelope in his previously-empty inbox. Inside, was an unsigned letter:

_If you would see what the Archangel Michael has been up to, be at St. James' Park, London, at 3 pm tomorrow, on the south side of the Blue Bridge. Come alone, and don't let yourself be seen._

Secret anonymous letters now, for Christ's sake? He didn't recognize the handwriting, but the paper smelled earthly. "Who put this here!" he demanded. But no one seemed to know.

Gabriel was there, as instructed, in his immaculate jogging suit. In deference to the letter's instructions, he did not approach straight up the paved path or over the bridge, but came up from the south, sticking close to crowds of humans wherever he could.

There. Though their back was turned to him, he could see Michael's distinctive twisted coif and pale gray suit. Beside them on the bench was a dark-haired woman whose low cut black dress, purple corset, and languid posture fairly oozed temptation. Gabriel was not particularly skilled in lurking, but he managed to edge behind a tree that was close enough to let him hear their conversation but should, he thought, shield him from view.

"...lost him?" the Archangel was saying, in an icy tone.

"For the moment," the demoness - Gabriel was quite close enough to tell _that_! - replied.

"Uggh. Honestly. How is hell always so _incompetent_?"

"Well, maybe because _we_ have to do without the resources _your_ lot takes for granted."

There was a pause. "What resources do you require?"

The demoness smiled, revealing unusually pointed canines. "Well, the traitors can't hide from your surveillance, can they? Give me their location, and I'll see to the rest. Send some more of those photos as well."

"Why? Your little shape-shifter isn't going to fool them again."

The demoness shrugged her nearly-bare shoulders. "It won't fool _Crowley_. It's possible we could simply reverse the treatment on Aziraphale. Although he's smarter than most of you, so he might figure it out too quickly." She looked thoughtful. "We could, perhaps, simply leak some of the photos to the humans. If you could find me some...private ones. Leave out the wings, though. No need to give all of us away, is there?"

"Why?"

"He's been getting a bit political recently. And there are still plenty of humans who consider that sort of thing compromising. Grounds for dismissing someone and anything they have to say. At a minimum, he'd be severely embarrassed, a prim, private little being like him. And you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

Michael nodded tightly. "I'll see what I can do."

"Will you, Michael? How generous."

The demoness glanced over her shoulder, and shot to her feet, eyes wide. "Shit."

She 6 clicked her fingers and vanished, as Michael met Gabriel's cold gaze. "Brother..." they said calmly, rising to meet him with a smooth grace.

"Am I? Your brother, I mean?" His words were clipped and harsh.

"Of course. Our Mother created you mere moments before me. Almost in the same breath, as it were."

"Mmm. And what about Lucifer? Is he still your brother?"

"Only technically. He lost the right to be called brother when he rebelled. I cast him down myself, if you recall."

"I see. Because it seems like you have been talking more to our Fallen older sibling - or, worse, his minions - than you have to me of late."

Michael smiled soothingly. "Gabriel... You know there are times that temporary alliances must be made to further the greater good. That can be unsavory, yes, which is why I have always been happy to take on that burden for you."

"So I always thought. But here I find that you have been going behind my back to take on a mission I never authorized, one that is against our Lord's will, that is _wrong_. And you have lied about it to my face."

Michael raised an eyebrow. "Against our Lord's will? You yourself said the traitor deserved to be punished."

Gabriel drew in a sharp breath. "That was _before_ we received new instructions. Which _you_ were present for. Aziraphale and his life on earth were not to be attacked or interfered with. You deliberately, without consultation with any of your siblings - your Unfallen siblings, at least - went against the spirit of that order. As a result, you have unjustly caused pain to two beings that have Her favor, and you have exposed a fellow angel to danger and the ridicule of hell. This injustice in turn has raised indignation and sympathy for the one you call traitor among humans and angels alike."

For the first time in millennia, Michael looked worried. "But you wanted..."

"I _wanted_ what I have always wanted, Michael," Gabriel hissed. "Order. Security. I wanted to forget this whole Armageddon mess ever happened, and to just get back to normal operations. _This_ is not that. _This_ is a colossal, possibly rebellion-inducing fuck-up."

Michael swallowed, and raised their chin. "I see. So what now, big brother?"

Gabriel's jaw worked. "We are meant to make examples of traitors. Justice must be seen to have been done."

"Ah. Well, a shame you sent off my contact, then. I don't suppose you carry hellfire in your pockets?"

"No need. I consulted with the Metatron in preparation for what I might see here. In consideration of your zeal and your long service, you will not be destroyed. Nor will you Fall; simply sending you to join your new friends would have little point. But you do need to learn some humility. Therefore..."

The Archangel waved a hand in a complicated pattern. Michael felt their powers slipping, their extended sight dimming, even their wings, hidden though they were in their own pocket dimension, fading away. "Wait...no!"

"Archangel Michael, you are sentenced to be human for the remainder of your corporation's natural life. And it will be a long one," he added. "I've added in blessings that should hold for the next sixty or seventy years."

Michael's eyes narrowed. "You bastard."

"Don't worry, Michael. I'm told the decades fly by even faster when you're mortal. But there is another consideration." His face took on a look that was serious, almost sad. "It has been brought to my attention that we may have been in error. That, in acting firmly to promote upright behavior, we have neglected mercy and love. That, perhaps, we have even exhibited excesses of pride, wrath, and even envy. I will be making a study of this. But we would benefit, I think, from a view on the ground. When you return, I'm sure you'll have much to teach us."

" _We_ may have been in error," Michael echoed tightly. "But I'm the one who pays?"

Gabriel shrugged. "You're the one who went rogue and got caught. So...yeah. Oh. You like Boston, right?"

"Why?"

"Because I can't leave you _here_ , obviously. In the same city as the beings you probably still want vengeance on, and who almost certainly now want vengeance on you? No, no. Far too messy. So...off you go." He snapped his fingers, and the former Archangel vanished.

1\. They didn't need to wear them, of course; they had simply picked up the habit from watching humans who read a lot. This affectation, along with Zerachiel's general manner, reminded Gabriel uncomfortably of the traitor. But Zerachiel had never left heaven and had always been almost embarrassingly enthusiastic in their loyalty, so he let it slide. Back

2\. See Sunjinjo's brilliant 'Principal, Cardinal' on this site for more on this! Back

3\. But angels don't need permission to access it in their free time. Unedited nature footage, though far more boring than an actual documentary, can still make a welcome break from the Sound of Music. Back

4\. For instance, eating _might_ include gluttony, but usually doesn't. And gluttony would get picked up in the sin file; there is no need to _watch_ the event except to cross-check. Likewise, consensual sexual activity is also generally class 2, even though it gets cross-checked more frequently. No one wants the angels sorting out sin and virtue points to spend a large part of their time incredibly bored, horribly embarrassed, grossed out, or interested to the point of being distracted from their work. Back

5\. Luckily for The Arrangement, this rule also included demons. The codes for supernatural beings pre-date the Fall, and therefore the demons' change in status. Changing the system settings would have required permission from Higher Up, which had not been given. Back

6\. The setup had gone like this: Empusa had been a bit reluctant to impersonate Rosacarnis, but after a considerable amount of guilt-tripping had agreed. She called up Michael using the number Constantine had provided to Crowley to set the meeting. Crowley and Aziraphale warned her to get out the moment Gabriel turned up. Raziel had been more than happy to drop the message in the Archangel's inbox that would get him to the meetup point. Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title, of course, is a reference to St. Paul (then Saul) being struck with a blinding vision on the road to Damascus that tells him he was doing the wrong thing in persecuting Jesus's disciples. Of course, Paul doesn't entirely change. If you compare the letters of Paul to the Gospels, you might notice he sounds WAY more rigid and judgy, particularly regarding women and sex, and more accepting of contemporary social hierarchies. So I wouldn't be expecting a complete change in Gabriel's personality here, either - more a re-orienting of his priorities.
> 
> Angel categorizations are weird and inconsistent even within religious traditions, let alone between them.  
> The only ones who are always listed as Archangels are Michael and Gabriel, but they are also listed under other categories; seraph and cherubim, respectively, which is why I gave Gabriel extra wings and eyes. What those two are actually supposed to DO varies wildly. Raphael^ (healing) and Uriel (light, learning, and/or repentance) are also usually listed as archangels.  
> Then there are a whole bunch that may or may not be archangels, including Sandalphon - most frequently listed as a patron of music (hence the hymn writing) and protector of unborn children*. Jophiel is one of the few angels traditionally described as feminine, and is a patron of wisdom, understanding, and judgment, while Zadkiel is the angel of mercy, attributed with stopping Abraham from killing Isaac. Zerachiel (here in charge of Earth Observations) is described as a prince of "ministering angels" who watch over the earth and as being involved in the judgment of souls. Selaphiel (here head of Prayer department) is a patron of worship.  
> Among other angel types: Nanael (here head of Earth Agents Communication) is a principality devoted to spiritual communication. The angels I assigned to the gate were Nithael (a guardian principality - like Aziraphale - and angel of rejuvenation) and Muriel (a feminine dominion associated with peace).
> 
> ^ - I'm not a fan of the "Crowley used to be Rafael" head canon, as it smacks too much of the trend in other media where it is implied that to be particularly special or powerful you must come from a specific genetic lineage. I much prefer the idea that he's an ordinary demon who either just happens to be or decided to be a decent person. After all, it is fairly clear that he and Aziraphale have been good influences on each other, if in opposite directions. But an angel of healing didn't fit in this story, and I didn't want to stick Rafael in just to contradict the notion.  
> * - Oof, not going there! The more positive interpretations of this would be an even worse fit with the GO characterization of him than the music, and the others would open up a whole can of worms.


	10. Hell to pay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Some violence here, and death of a character probably no one will mourn

Anathema leaned back from her scrying bowl.1

"So?" Crowley inquired.

"Michael is human now, apparently. Banished to..." She paused. Anathema trusted Crowley not to outright murder someone who was now a human - especially since that would completely defeat the purpose of the whole punishment. But the demon had an impulsive streak a mile wide and she couldn't be sure some hare-brained scheme involving Michael might not occur to him. "Another continent," she concluded vaguely. "Gabriel said they wouldn't be coming back to heaven or their full powers until they'd lived out a full mortal life."

"Well, that's a relief," Aziraphale sighed.

Crowley grunted. "Kind of. Michael was really the least of our problems."

"One step at a time, dear."

Anathema stretched. Hunching over a bowl of water for the past half hour and left quite a crick in her neck. "I should be off. It's a long way back to Milton Keynes 2."

"Are you sure you won't stay over, my dear? It would be no trouble."

"Nah. Things to do. Thanks, though."

"Well, Crowley will at least drop you off at the station. Won't you, dearest?"

Crowley snapped out of whatever gloomy reverie he had fallen into. He was still doing that a lot, though less frequently. "Hmm? Oh. I suppose, if you'll be all right here by yourself?"

Aziraphale nodded firmly. "Perfectly, my dear. I have some reading I want to do. Perhaps I'll make a pot of this delicious-looking herbal infusion Miss Device brought us."

Crowley swallowed. "Right. Sure. Come on, then, book girl."

When they had gone, Aziraphale moved toward the kitchen, lost in thought. For all the sensible, cheerful, "one step at a time" attitude he put on, he was impatient too. The fear was still there - the fear that if you look away too long, if you let down your guard, if you dare to fully relax and be happy, then that will be the moment that everything that matters is lost. Crowley was still having nightmares. Like the moments when he seemed to get trapped in some spiral of negative thoughts, they weren't an everyday thing anymore. But they were still too frequent. Aziraphale knew that that fixing their external problems wouldn't make the fears go away; they'll need time to work through it. But that can't happen until the threat is gone, because until then there will be at least some portion of the paranoia that's rational.

Aziraphale put the kettle on and spooned the dried herbs into the teapot. What happened to Michael was....satisfactory, he supposed. Certainly it was a good thing they hadn't been added to the ranks of the demons who still opposed them. Still, there was a part of him that wanted the Archangel to suffer. It was an unfamiliar feeling, and not one he was proud of. But if they could feel and understand even half the pain that they had caused... He poured the boiling water over the herbs, and inhaled the soothing smell of mint and linden flower. There _was_ a certain poetic justice in the sentence, though. Maybe, being human, Michael might actually come to understand love, and hope, and suffering. Or maybe they'd just be a shitty, insufferable, vindictive human, too. But at least there was potential. After all, _something_ seemed to have gotten through to Gabriel.

The other side, though... Once upon a time, Aziraphale had been more shocked and upset at heaven's misdeeds than he had been at anything coming out of hell. _A great deal holier than thou. That's the whole point._ If demons did something terrible, well, that was just how demons _were_. There wasn't any point getting mad about it. Of course, he'd worked out within two encounters that Crowley didn't fit that model. He was mischievous, but not cruel or prone to wanton destruction. And he had a personal moral code, not just a set of instructions to be followed unquestioningly. But it had taken Aziraphale a shamefully long time to let observation outweigh propaganda in his assessment of which emotions demons could have.

What he knew now was this: they had always had a choice - all of them, Upstairs or Downstairs. No one was automatically good or automatically evil. Heaven and hell might perhaps have a different distribution of personality types, but even that was self-selected; they had all started out in the same place. Well, either that, or humans didn't have free will either, and everyone was just playing a pre-programmed role in the ineffable plan. Assuming _that_ wasn't the case3, what Crowley's former colleagues had done to him was not inevitable, or just "demons being demons". It was a choice, and not one that all had made. Those who were most involved clearly had differing reasons. Empusa had participated out of fear, Rosacarnis out of a desire for power and status. And then there was Hastur. One might say Hastur's motive was revenge, but Aziraphale knew the Duke had had it out for Crowley long before there'd been any reason for such enmity. No reason except, perhaps, what Crowley represented: a different way of being a demon. And _that_ was not something Aziraphale felt inclined to forgive.

Distracted by this thought, as the angel turned to take the teapot and a mug to the kitchen table, he tripped on the stripped rag rug that lay in front of the sink. The pot jerked out of Aziraphale's hands. His reaction was slow; even as he reached out to catch it, it smashed against the flagstones. But just as they were flying apart, the fragments of the pot stopped and reversed their movement. Like a tape being run backward, they reformed and the pot, still full of the fragrant infusion, hopped into the angel's hand.

Aziraphale stared at it in shock. Carefully, he sat down at the table. He poured a mug of tea, hands trembling slightly, and set down the pot. For a while, he contemplated both. They sat there, gently cooling, like any ordinary hot beverage. He decided he might as well drink the tea - the miraculously unspilled tea. The thought, the gesture, had been automatic. From the day the Archangels had turned up in the bookshop until now, any such act had been like trying to use a remote control with no batteries. He hadn't fully trained himself out of it, but he hadn't really tried to, either.

Now, if he closed his eyes and felt inside, he could feel the spark that had been missing. Perhaps it was just the presence of it after so long an absence, but he thought it might even be stronger than before. Experimentally, he touched the branch of apple blossoms that stood in a vase on the table with a simple command: _grow_. The branch responded immediately. Roots shattered the glass of the vase and crawled over the edge of the table, seeking soil, as branches unfurled upward, leaves unfolding toward what should be the sky.

As he dropped off Anathema and turned toward home, Crowley tried not to rush. _It will be fine_ , he told himself. _The angel isn't a helpless fledgling. There's no sign Rosacarnis or Hastur have found this place. You don't have to be there every second of every day._ It was enough to slow his breathing, to keep himself from stomping on the gas, but not enough to actually banish the fear. By the time he reached the garden gate his resolve broke and he found himself sprinting for the front door of the cottage. _No. Pull yourself together, bless it. Don't scare him by bursting in yelling for no reason._ He opened the door. "A...angel?"

"Crowley!" Aziraphale bustled out of the kitchen, beaming. He launched himself into the demon's arms and kissed him soundly.

Crowley blinked, mental gears grinding. "W..Ng...Not that I mind, but...what's up?"

The angel's eyes twinkled. "I want to show you something. I think it will make you feel _much_ better."

He dragged Crowley into the kitchen, where the demon gawked at the young tree that now stood incongruously at the edge of the breakfast table.

"What the _heaven_ is that? No..." he held up a hand, "I can hear you about to go 'I should think you'd recognize an apple tree by now, Crowley' or some such rubbish. What I _mean_ is...how did it get here?"

"I grew it."

"You...what?" He stared at the angel.

"You know..." Aziraphale clicked his fingers.

"But..."

Aziraphale often smiled, but rarely _grinned_. This, however, was one of those times. "Care for a drink, my dear?" He pulled a bottle of wine and two glasses out of thin air.

Crowley yelped. "Your powers!"

"Mmmhmm."

"They're back!"

Aziraphale put down the wine and glasses. "What were you just saying about stating the obvious, dear?"

Crowley stared for a moment, before leaping forward and giving the angel just as sudden a kiss as the one Aziraphale had planted on him, even picking him off the ground and spinning around for good measure. "Aziraphale! That's wonderful! Oh, thank Someone..."

He paused, arms still wrapped around the angel. "Er, actually, maybe we should. I mean, do you think..." He pointed at the ceiling.

"Not sure, but probably. I mean, I suppose Gabriel _might_ have had second thoughts. But if he did I would have expected him to come to announce how magnanimous he was being. Or to complain that the first three miracles I performed on regaining my powers involved fixing a broken teapot, accidentally growing a tree indoors, and transporting wine - or 'fermented fruit water' as he would probably put it - that I could easily have taken from the cabinet by hand."

Crowley snorted. "Very true. Well, then..."He turned his gaze upward. "Hey, God!" he shouted. "I know we've had our differences. Not gonna take it all back. But this is one decision I'm 100% on board with. So...Cheers!"

Aziraphale gave him a look. "Not particularly reverent."

"Demon, remember? Besides, it's about bloody time!" He looked at the apple tree. "We'll have to miracle that outside, you know. If we leave it, it won't get enough light and I'm pretty sure Anathema will lose her rental deposit."

Aziraphale smiled. "We'll find a spot for it tomorrow. In the meantime, I've thought of a plan to deal with the last part of our problem."

"Oh yeah?"

He poured two glasses of wine and held one out to Crowley. "Yes. But you probably aren't going to like it. So drink up, dear."

Aziraphale told him the plan. Crowley goggled at him. "No. Absolutely not. Are you insane?!"

Aziraphale pursed his lips. "I don't think so. I've been thinking it through quite carefully, and I believe it will work."

The demon shook his head. "I can't let you do it. It's too dangerous!"

"My love. Do you remember what I said when you started to get worried about our original magic trick?"

Crowley swallowed. "You said...there was a reason I'd never been ordered to attack you directly."4

"Mmhmm. Don't you think we should remind hell of that reason? I'd say it's time to put a little fear of _us_ back into them. Especially since I _think_ I might actually be stronger than before. Just in case that's temporary, we'd best take advantage of it."

_Deep breaths. Don't panic,_ Crowley told himself. _We're just talking through the possibility logically, yeah?_ "So, um...the first step. I think that should be me. Or me-as-you, if that makes sense."

Aziraphale shook his head. "No good, dear boy. You'd be in just the same position you were when Michael dropped you Down There. We have to wait to do the switch until step two."

 _Bless it, he's right. But - just breathe - you can trust him. Just remember that under that adorable fluffiness is a terrifyingly powerful ethereal being._ "OK. Fine. But it's going to take some careful choreography."

Aziraphale smiled. "Luckily, we know a young man with a surprising amount of talent in stage direction who has been itching to assist..."

~~~

Rosacarnis lounged on a throne made of skulls and the horns of long-extinct beasts. It was not a particularly comfortable seat, but that wasn't the point. The point was that a throne meant power, and power meant getting to do what she liked, with fewer beings who could use her for their own ends. And if she couldn't find a way to get that blasted traitor back she would lose it all. But the trail seemed to have gone cold, and that blasted Archangel wasn't calling her back. _If only..._

"Mistress?" an imp called.

"What do you want?" she snapped.

The imp cowered. "Mistress...there's an angel at the gates."

" _What?"_

"He says he wants to speak with you and the other Dukes, to parlay. I think...I think it's _the_ angel, mistress!"

She was sure her servant must be mistaken. Surely even such a soft, trusting creature as this angel seemed to be wouldn't be such a fool. But no... When she joined the other Dukes and their retinues in the antechamber just inside the gates, she saw the plump, silver-haired figure standing between the two guards, nervously adjusting his bow tie.

The angel cleared his throat. "Ah, good. I see everyone I requested be present has arrived."

"Why are you here, foolish Principality?" Lord Belial said. His face twisted into a smirk. "Or should I say _former_ Principality. I'm not really sure _what_ you are now."

Aziraphale ignored him. "Duke Hastur. Duchess Rosacarnis. As I understand that you have been leading the...persecutions against the demon Crowley, I have come to discuss terms of peace."

Rosacarnis's long skirts swished against the floor as she stepped forward. "Have you, now? What terms would you offer?"

The angel raised his chin. "Just these: leave us alone - permanently, this time - and none of you will be harmed."

Duke Hastur chuckled unpleasantly, and the laugh spread through the crowd of demons.

Rosacarnis smirked. "Bold words. But we all know you don't have anything to back that up with. Guards!"

The gatekeeper demons seized Aziraphale's arms. Rosacarnis took a step closer. "No, let me tell you what is going to happen, little angel. You are going to stay here, and sooner or later that traitorous snake is going to crawl out from under his rock to come find you. And when he does we will snare him too, and the pair of you will remain here for eternity as a warning to all those who would defy the will of our Dark Lord."

The angel sighed. "Oh dear. I did hope there wouldn't have to be any unpleasantness. But, if we _must_ do things that way..."

Aziraphale _blazed_. The demons holding his arms screamed in agony, and all those surrounding had to fall back, shielding their eyes. The one who didn't let go in time was discorporated on the spot, their transparent spirit blown back to the Pit; the other fell back, whimpering, his claw charred and blackened. The angel ignored them. He reached under his jacket and drew a short blade, which ignited with celestial fire. "You _dare_ to threaten me and the one I love?!" The angel's voice echoed strangely, and his wings unfolded, blindingly white. "Miserable creatures! You could be so much more. You say you rebelled to be free and yet look at you!" The blade whipped around and junior demons jumped back nervously. "In thrall to cruel masters, to your own ambitions, to your own pain! So devoted to them that you make love a crime! But it doesn't have to be that way. My Serpent is worth a thousand of you. And I will challenge _anyone_ who says otherwise."

Duke Hastur growled, and Aziraphale turned, swinging his short blade. Realizing his danger, the Duke grabbed a junior demon and shoved it in front of him. The hooked blade caught the unfortunate demon in the neck; a fatal blow that disintegrated it in a cloud of sparks and ash.

"Coward!" the angel thundered. "Face me yourself, or not at all!"

Lord Belial drew a sword and charged at the angel. Aziraphale caught the blade in his bare hand and _squeezed_. The metal melted between his fingers and Belial dropped the hilt, palms blistering.

Many of the smaller demons had already scattered. The angel turned to Rosacarnis. "You. The others had hatred, but _you_ orchestrated my love's torment for your own _career advancement_?!" The demoness tried to retreat as Aziraphale launched himself forward.

She spun to the side, and the flaming hedging bill lodged in her shoulder. Rosacarnis screeched. It was not a deadly wound, and the blade extinguished itself as her motion yanked it out of the angel's hand, but the damage to both her soul and corporation would not heal quickly. She staggered away, one arm useless and burned-looking. Lord Xaphan was scampering for the stairs shouting: "What is wrong with you idiots?! Get the hellfire!"

Aziraphale glanced upward. "A lift, please, if you would be so good."

Deep in a Sussex woodland, Crowley paced back and forth anxiously in a clearing. He wore an earpiece. "Anything?"

"I see him," Anathema replied. She had set up a communications center inside the Bentley, which was parked off the road some distance away. The key piece of equipment at the moment was her scrying bowl.

The demon heaved a relieved sigh, though he didn't entirely relax. They hadn't been entirely sure Anathema would be able to get a stable fix on the angel across realms. _If we can't see you or don't get your signal, the demon had insisted, I'm yanking you out after 40 minutes. No arguing! B_ ut apparently Aziraphale's feather, being a much more personal item, worked better to set up the connection than had Crowley's cell phone.

"What's happening?"

"The demons seem to be laughing and....Ooh. Wow."

Crowley froze. "What? What?"

"Let's just say I understand why in bible stories the angels always have to start their speech with 'be not afraid'. Because - damn."

"See?" came the voice of Constantine. "I told you...demons are one thing, but angels scare the pants off me."

"All right...I think...Now!"

Crowley stepped back a few paces, just in case, and snapped his fingers. This triggered the summoning circle that they had drawn in the center of the clearing - essentially the equal and opposite counterpart of the one Michael had used to drop a demon into hell. Aziraphale appeared in the center of it, looking like a supernova.

Crowley let out a relieved breath, then winced. "Uh, Angel? Could you dim the lights a bit?"

"Oh! Sorry, my dear!" The celestial glow faded.

"Did you, uh..."

"Phase one completed," Aziraphale confirmed. "Several Dukes are still in fighting form, though, so we'd better get ready for phase two."

Crowley hugged the angel. Then he touched his earpiece. "Constantine, do you read?"

"Loud and clear, me old serpent. In position." The sorcerer waited in the trees near the road with a hosepipe.

"Right. Now, _if_ things get out of hand, don't forget..."

"I know, I know. Don't bless the water until _after_ you run past. Have a little faith willya?"

Crowley grinned. "You know, I think I'm starting to."

"Do you remember how to do the smoke?" said the voice of Adam. They had insisted, over his protests, that he not actually be present for the fight because A: it would still be child endangerment, even if the child in question was the former antichrist, B: hell didn't seem inclined to mess with Adam currently, and it was best to keep it that way, and C: no one knew if using his remaining powers freely might allow them to take control of him again. As a compromise, they had set up two streaming cameras in the clearing that gave Adam and Anathema full view of the clearing from their laptops.

"Yeah, I remember," Crowley confirmed. He felt a tremor in the ground. "They're coming."

Aziraphale took his hand and snapped his fingers. A circle of smoke bombs went off, shrouding the center of the clearing in purple mist. Under cover of the smoke, angel and demon concentrated and carefully slid their essences past one another, careful not to merge. When Aziraphale opened his eyes again, he could feel the change in the shape of "his" hand, and glanced up at, apparently, himself. The demons began to emerge cautiously from the trees.

Aziracrowley picked up the sword that Aziraphale had used in the summoning spell that freed him from the pit. It burst into full flame now - not with celestial flame but from the effect of the Greek Fire 5 in which it had been dipped. But, with the help of a touch of glamour and the memory of what Aziraphale had done Down There, hopefully none of the demons would notice the difference. Crowziraphale reached into a tree stump and retrieved three fragile glass vials in a cushioning pouch. Even having them this close to his beloved demon made him feel queasy, but that was a risk they would have to take if the other demons insisted on fighting.

With a fierce shout, Xaphan hurled a hellfire grenade at the apparent angel. Aziracrowley stepped right into it, spreading his white wings wide to ensure not a single spark touched his black-clad companion. The fire licked over him and vanished.

"Wicked!" said Adam's voice through Crowziraphale's earpiece.

He stepped forward with a grim look, brandishing his flaming sword. "How very rude! But if that's how you want to do this...come on, then!"

On the other side of circle, Hastur snarled, and made a run at what he believed to be Crowley, pitchfork couched like a lance. Crowziraphale, black wings raised in a similar shielding gesture, pulled one of the vials from his pocket and hurled it into Hastur's face. The vial burst, and the resulting shriek was piercing - Crowziraphale wondered if they could hear it in London. Hastur dropped the pitchfork, clawing at his face as he folded in on himself, imploding into a gooey mass. It was a sight that would, later on, haunt a nightmare or two on the rare occasions that the angel slept - though not so much as the expression on the face of the unknown demon Hastur had shoved in front of his flaming blade.

The other demons wavered, horrified and uncertain.

"Enough!" a voice called. The combatants noticed Beelzebub standing on a hill at the edge of the clearing. "Leave them. Back to your postzz, all of you!" ze snapped.

The other demons didn't need much persuading to scarper.

Beelzebub pointed at Crowziraphale. "You. We need to talk."

He nodded, and stepped forward. 

Aziracrowley gripped his arm. "A...my dear, are you sure this is wise?"

Crowziraphale grinned. "Sure, Angel. Don't worry about it." After all, he still had a jacket-pocket full of holy water if things got ugly.

He stuck his hands in his jeans pockets and mimicked Crowley's casual saunter as he approached Satan's second in command. "Lord Beelzebub. Haven't seen you in a while. Been busy?"

Beelzebub gave a curt nod. "Very. But I wanted to thank you, Serpent. And to offer my congratulationzz."

Crowziraphale raised an eyebrow. "Really? What for?"

"After the Apocalypse failed to occur, there were thozze who questioned my leadership. Including my decision to releazze you, after you proved...more rezzilient than expected."

"Let me guess. Hastur?"

"Among otherzz. Ezzpecially after Rosacarnis made her propozzal. Zzzo, I let them have what they wanted. It is zzzafe to zay it came back to bite them."

Crowziraphale tipped his head. ""So, you're not mad about all this...because we we just killed or wounded your biggest rivals?"

"That izz correct. Azz previouzly agreed, you will not be interfered with unlezz you choozze to defy uzz again."

Crowziraphale nodded. "Good. So that's the 'thanks' covered. Why 'congratulations'?"

"Becauzze...You appear to have found the only angel with any personal honor or loyalty."

Crowziraphale blinked. That was _not_ something he expected to hear from Beelzebub. "Er, what?"

Beelzebub glanced away. "The otherzz... They cazt uzz off without a zzecond thought. Whatever we had been to them before...once Fallen, we were nothing."

 _That's why you didn't come to watch_ , Aziraphale realized. _It may have turned to bitterness, but you loved someone once, in some form. And they broke your heart._

"But yourzz defied heaven for you, zztepped into hell for you," Beelzebub continued. "You are fortunate, Serpent."

Crowziraphale coughed. It was _really_ weird overhearing himself praised by Satan's right-hand demon. "Yeah, I know. Speaking of which..."

Beelzebub nodded. "Go."

He started to do so, and then turned back. "By the way... Maybe it's too late and all, but...things are a bit in flux Up There at the moment. Some of the higher ups, in particular, are rethinking some stuff. Still a bunch of wankers, mind you, but slightly humbled wankers. If you were interested in giving or seeking an olive branch, now might be the time."

Beelzebub gave another of zir curt nods. "I will take it into conzzideration."

~~~

Back at the Vat and Fiddle, Crowley lounged in one of the back booths, one long arm wrapped around the angel's shoulders. They had discreetly slipped back into their original bodies out of view of the cameras before rejoining their friends.

"So...is that it, then?" Anathema asked. She took a sip of her white wine and made a face.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Aziraphale said. "I should have warned you - this place has terrible wine. Let me fix that." He touched her glass, turning the liquid inside into a quite good, if rather surprised, sauvignon blanc.

"I wouldn't say that's _it_ ," Crowley replied, "I'm not so sure this story has an ending, anymore. But - yeah, hopefully we won't have any more trouble from either side for a bit."

Constantine snorted. "Please. Messing about with earth is what they _do_."

The angel shrugged. "What they _have_ done. I'm with Adam. Maybe it doesn't always have to be that way."

"Yeah, well. Not holding my breath, mate."

Crowley eyed the sorcerer. "So...I suppose we'll be getting your bill soon? What reward will you be requesting?"

Constantine tossed back his whiskey and shook his head. "Nah. I'm good."

The demon raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Well, not saying I might not ask for a favor in the future, mind. But...I got to browse an angel's book collection, have a weight taken off my conscience, and fuck with some demons without anyone I like dying." He shrugged. "That's a fair exchange, I reckon."

 _Oh, so the real reward was the friends you made along the way?_ his cynical inner voice whispered sarcastically. He realized he hadn't heard from it for at least a week - that was new. _Well, when those friends include an easy-on-the-eyes no-nonsense witch who can see the future, and two immortal beings with now fully-operational magic powers...Yes. Obviously._

Anathema blinked, and turned on her Sight for a moment. She was pleased to note that Crowley's aura had nearly returned to its usual scarlet glow and the silver edging on Aziraphale's, though extremely bright, was stable and calm. Constantine's too looked better - the grey haze had gone, and the patches of dark green and black were smaller. She smiled to herself, but made no comment.

"I will be glad to be getting back to London," Aziraphale commented.

Crowley smiled at him. "Same, Angel. Same."

"Yeah?" Anathema said curiously. She had vaguely wondered if they might decide to stay, as she had unexpectedly found herself doing in Tadfield.

"Oh, yes. Lovely as it is here, you can't get a decent crepe within a fifty mile radius." The angel had tried to make some himself, and had produced something resembling a rubber placemat. "And the local community theatre is charming, but not a patch on the Lyric."

"They're doing 'Cabaret' next month, you know," Crowley commented.

Aziraphale brightened. "Ooh, excellent!6 Do you know, I think that's the only musical he likes?" he added in a conspiratorial whisper to the humans.

"I don't hate _all_ other musicals," Crowley protested, "Just because I didn't want to go see that abomination with the furries based on some fashy poems..."

"Huh?" Once more Constantine felt the conversation had wandered into some decades or centuries-long private argument.

Crowley rolled his eyes. "T.S. Eliot was a fascist sympathizer," he explained impatiently. "Those cat poems are about a feline master race with a death cult."

Anathema frowned. "Really?"

Aziraphale sighed. "Look, I didn't like the man either. Do you know he refused to publish 'Animal Farm' because he actually thought the moral should be that the pigs were _right_ that 'some animals are more equal than others'? Took me _ages_ to calm old George down after he got that rejection letter. But, my dear, can you _imagine_ how he would react if he actually _saw_ 'Cats'? His poems set to tunes with actual emotions? Humans in cat suits writhing around acting extremely horny and/or flamboyant?"

Crowley chuckled. "Eliot _would_ hate it, wouldn't he? Still prefer something with a plot, though."

Returning to the original question, Crowley added: "I wouldn't mind coming back for a short holiday. Under less stressful circumstances. Check on that apple tree you miracled up, maybe."

"Hmm. Yes, that would be nice." Aziraphale agreed thoughtfully. "But less than two months, or you'd get bored enough to start tempting horses to jump out of their paddocks. I know you would. And it's not like we _could_ actually stay, even if we wanted to."

"Why couldn't you stay?" Anathema inquired curiously.

"Because in a city of over a million, you see enough different people that most won't notice if you don't age," Crowley explained. "It was a pain in the arse in the old days - if we didn't get reassigned we had to move every few decades or risk turning the whole village's brains to mush with memory tweaks. Now, especially with phones and email and such, it's just the angel's favorite bakers and such we have to worry about."

"Hmm. Well, on that note...I suppose I should be heading home myself" Anathema remarked.

Crowley nodded. "Right. We still have to pack up all those books. And maybe the potion experiments. But I can drop you both at the station first."

"Do say hello to Miss Pepper and Ms. Shirley for us," Aziraphale added.

"Hang on, hang on!" Constantine interrupted. "Can't leave without a proper toast, you know."

"Well, what would you suggest, dear chap?"

"Hmm. Ah, I've got it." The sorcerer raised his glass. "To new friends, old loves, and ineffable plans. And may each and every one of us always give the devil his due."

1\. Raziel had borrowed a pen off Gabriel's desk that proved to be sufficient to get a fix on the Archangel.Back

2\. "Wait...where Pepper's mum was working on that paper on social stratification in a planned city?" Crowley had asked when it first came up. Anathema had simply smiled mysteriously. "Mmhm. Long story. I'll tell you later." Back

3\. And he did prefer to think that the Almighty hadn't lied to everyone to _that_ extent. Back

4\. See "Giving up the fight" Back

5\. Used in an early form of flame thrower, the recipe for Greek Fire is thought by humans to have been lost. It wasn't - Aziraphale just wasn't inclined to give that bit of knowledge back. Back

6\. It was such a _Crowley_ show that he'd loved it since first viewing in 1968 - even if some of the songs had hurt back then. While Crowley had been torturing himself with the 'Great Gatsby', the angel's phonograph was wearing out the grooves of "Mein Herr", "If they could see her through my eyes", and "Maybe this time" on his first copy of the soundtrack. Actually, when visiting Berlin in 1929, he could swear he had spotted from a distance a certain redheaded cabaret girl(?) who would have been unmistakable even without the dark glasses. He really must remember to ask about that sometime. Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Saunter a mile in my shoes' by LoveLettersUnsent, suggests that Beelzebub used to be in love with Gabriel. I decided not to specify who ze was thinking of, but you can go with that option if you wish.  
> The same story includes pre-Fall Crowley voicing pretty much the same thought to the other rebel angels as Aziraphale has here (How could we be having this meeting instead of tending to our duties if free will were a human-only thing?). 
> 
> Hope no one's too disappointed the cottage wasn't permanent! Honestly, I'm kinda glad that didn't get included in the book - while it would have completed the parallel with Shadwell and Madame Tracy, I don't see it actually making sense as a retirement option for any immortal beings, especially these two. Heck, even humans who have been defined by their jobs - even if they didn't like them much - are often at risk of depression when faced with a sudden complete retirement. But as the occasional holiday retreat - yeah, why not?
> 
> Don't know if that was a weird musical theatre digression in the middle...But was listening to Cabaret soundtrack and could definitely picture 1960s Aziraphale angsting over it ("You have to understand the way I am, Mein Herr; A tiger is a tiger, not a lamb, Mein Herr." But, on the other hand... "Yet when we're walking together; They sneer if I'm holding her hand; But if they could see her through my eyes; Maybe they'd all understand")  
> Or maybe I just got distracted imagining either form of Crowley in those Sally Bowles stockings (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lxmz3RcNNBE) ;)  
> Fun fact: Sally in the 1968 London stage version was played by a young Judy Dench, who was also supposed to appear in the original version of Cats but got injured and couldn't.  
> Not so fun fact: The more I learn about T.S. Eliot's opinions on things, the more awful he seems. 
> 
> We never actually meet Pepper's mum in GO. But the fact that she was enough of a hippie to join a commune and name her kid Pippin Galadriel Moonchild but practical enough to ditch the leaky tents and horny dudes to go get a sociology degree suggests she and Anathema would probably get along. But are they dating? Forming a Wiccan coven? Plotting against the patriarchy? All three? What do you think? ;)
> 
> Constantine's toast at the end is a variant of one Morpheus's immortal human friend Hob uses in Sandman.


	11. The whole world with you

The Bentley wove through London traffic in in its customary manner, which is to say: in complete violation of both traffic laws and the laws of physics.

The demon at the wheel hummed happily to himself.

"Where did you say we were going, dear?" Aziraphale inquired.

"'The Granary'. Hottest new restaurant in town, they say."

"I'm intrigued, dear boy. But this isn't one of those where they give you a single pea and a fluff of turmeric foam and have the nerve to call it a first course, is it?"

Crowley grinned. That was probably the only piece of Famine's work he had ever been on board with. It was genuinely funny to watch rich people spend a fortune on their supper and walk away hungry.

"Nah. The fashion now is 'Farm to Table'. You know, the ones where they practically give you the name and address of every carrot. Speaking of which...you think you'll keep up with the cooking?"

Aziraphale considered this. "Yes, I think so. It has it's own magic, I find, at least when things go right - like alchemy, you might say. But we really will have to get a bigger cooker, with a proper oven[1]. Are you still going to be doing your, what was it, cracking?"

"Hacking? Maybe a bit. Just to keep my skills up, you know. Not like we need the cash, now."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. "That reminds me. Gaz said the Soho Community Land Trust just received an anonymous gift of £50,000. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

The demon shrugged. "Some bleeding-heart do-gooder, probably. Not like I'd know any of those. Present company excepted, of course."

The angel smiled knowingly. "If you say so, my dear."

They reached the restaurant, and Aziraphale pulled open the door: "After you, dear boy."

Crowley sauntered up to the head waitress' podium. "Hello. We have a reservation, under Anthony J. Crowley."

She looked down at her book, which suddenly confirmed that this was true. "Of course, sir. If you and your friend will just wait here, I'll see if your table is ready."

As they stood in the airy, plant-filled waiting area, Crowley remarked suddenly: "You know, Angel, I really need to find something else to call you."

Aziraphale's brow furrowed. "What? Why?" 'Angel' might have been a simple and accurate descriptor, but there was something about the way Crowley said it that had always felt special.

"No, no, I mean to other people!" the demon hastened to add, noticing the plaintive tone. "I've gotten in the habit of saying 'my friend here' and whatnot. Not that that's wrong, exactly. But it's a bit of an understatement at this point, isn't it?"

The head waitress approached. "If you and your friend would care to come this way..."

"Hmm. Yes, I see what you mean," Aziraphale said quietly, as she turned to leave after guiding them to a table with a window view and handing over the menus.

The demon nodded. "So?"

"I suppose I'll have to think about it. Oh, look! They have a spit-roasted chicken basted with rosemary olive oil. That sounds rather scrummy."

Crowley made a choking noise, and the angel looked up with concern. He'd come to recognize that look, the one that said: _No, I'm_ not _panicking, because that would be stupid. This is all perfectly fine and normal and not hell-related at all, dammit._

"On second thought," the angel said carefully, "What if we went for the Scottish salmon gravlax with juniper berries for the starter, and the tortellini d'estate with eggplant, green beans, and sun-dried tomatoes for the main?"

The demon let out a breath and relaxed. "Yeah, sounds good, Angel. Perhaps with a bottle of Sancerre?"

As the waiter delivered the plate of velvety pink gravlax, Aziraphale remarked: "By the way, this is my treat, dear boy. I will accept no argument."

Crowley sipped his wine and hummed slightly. "Well, if you insist. But, if you do, I'm getting the next one. Perhaps Breizh Café?"

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. Current opinion held the restaurant in question to be the best creperie in France. "Paris?"

"Why not? Seeing as we can go where we like, now, after all. Course, they have been having a bit of unrest down there lately."

"What else is new, dear? Oh, or what about Florence? We haven't been there since, what..."

"1505, I believe," Crowley supplied. "Or we could try somewhere new."

"Like what?"

"Dunno. Never been to Iceland. Or Argentina. Anywhere you want to go. The world is our oyster."

"Mmm. Did you know, I've heard New Zealand actually produces some of the world's best oysters? And Sauvignon Blanc, of course."

The demon grinned. "I like how you think, Angel."

The waiter returned with the pasta. Either he didn't notice the fact that only one party had ordered a main, or was too polite to mention it.

Of course, Crowley did steal a plump tortellini off the angel's plate. The ricotta filling was fluffy and rich with basil. "You know, you never did answer my question about what I should call you," he said.

"Well..." the angel blushed slightly. "I understand 'boyfriend' is the commonly used term these days."

Crowley suppressed a grimace. He had started this conversation, after all, so it's not like he didn't know that was a possible outcome. "Is that what you'd like?"

Aziraphale's nose wrinkled. "No, actually." It had seemed rather appealing when Uriel had used it to refer to Crowley, and had even momentarily distracted him from the fact that she was threatening him with a Fall at the time. But... "Seems a bit juvenile, now that I say it out loud. Reminds me of those ghastly American high school films."

The demon let out a breath in relief. "Oh, good." He toyed with a spoon. "Maybe...'Husband'?"

Aziraphale's face went through at least half a dozen expressions - Crowley thought he caught 'surprised', 'flattered', and 'doubtful' - before settling into something carefully blank. "Surely that's a bit _too_ official sounding?"

Crowley shrugged, also cautiously non-committal. "Well, the humans have finally got their act together to the point it _could_ be official. If you wanted."

Aziraphale took his hand. "Well, if that's something that's important to you, my love, then of course..."

"Wait - important to _me_?" Crowley interrupted. "I figured...Well, weddings seem like they should be _your_ kind of thing. You know, what with the tradition, and liking to have things done properly. And if that were what you wanted, then I'd be happy to miracle up as many fake birth certificates and whatnot as necessary."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. "Just to be clear, my dear - and I'm only asking this because you didn't _start_ this conversation with a proposal - would it be crushing a secret centuries-long dream if we didn't?"

Crowley swallowed. "Not...not exactly. I just dreamed of us being together. Really together, I mean, and not having to hide it."

The angel smiled at him, though his eyes were misty. "So did I, my love. And that's what we have now, isn't it?"

The corner of Crowley's mouth quirked upwards. One of the things he appreciated about Aziraphale was how the adorable bastard still managed to surprise him - often by being far more on the same page than he would have expected. "Hmm. So you're saying I _don't_ need to make an honest angel of you? Or would it be 'dishonest', given the whole demon thing?"

Aziraphale pursed his lips. "Well...I don't know. Marriage has always seemed a bit _bureaucratic_ , somehow, and I think we've both had _quite_ enough of that. At least now one party doesn't end up the property of the other, and the focus is more on the relationship than on transferring land or cattle, but..."

"...but it's not as if we need the tax break, or to inherit each other's pension," Crowley finished.

"Precisely. All the paperwork and expense...it's the sort of thing _you_ might have invented to annoy mortals."

"I think I might have," Crowley muttered under his breath. He couldn't quite remember, though.

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. "What was that, dear?"

"Nothing," the demon said quickly. "I _had_ thought the ceremony of it might appeal to you, though."

"Well, everyone who matters already knows what we mean to each other. Some possibly had it figured out before we did." The angel beamed at him. "And the vows are pretty, but a tad redundant at this point, don't you think?"

Crowley considered this, and nodded. "Fair point." After all, how much 'for better or for worse' could you get than what they'd already been through? You didn't need to _promise_ something you'd already _demonstrated_ repeatedly. "And even in alternative corporations, I suppose neither of us have ever gone in for big floofy dresses. Which seems to be the other reason humans like weddings: to have one excuse in their life to dress like a princess who tripped and fell into a meringue."

"Hmm. Meringues...You know, the bit I _might_ be inclined to go for is the cake," Aziraphale admitted.

Crowley grinned. "Don't worry about that, Angel. You shall have all the cake you desire. Oodles of cakes. In fact..."

He waved an arm to indicate the approach of dessert. There were two portions, this time, but they both knew half of Crowley's was going to end up on Aziraphale's plate. And that was how it should be.

The angel stuck a spoon into the rich brown sponge and a river of cardamom-scented chocolate sauce spilled out. "Oh, my dear. This looks positively sinful." He placed a spoonful in his mouth, and closed his eyes with a satisfied hum, and the demon's satisfied grin broadened.

"Mmm. That is delightful. Although...I don't quite see how it fits in with the Farm-to-Table theme."

"O ye of little faith. Evidently they have a relationship with some FairTrade cooperative in Ghana."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. "Did they have that partnership yesterday?"

"Sure. Must have done. Definitely."

"Only this dessert wasn't on the menu..."

When they were down to scraping the last of the chocolate sauce from the plates, Crowley returned to the question at hand. "So what _are_ we going to call each other, then?"

"What about 'partner'?" Aziraphale suggested. "That's accurate in both senses of the word, surely."

Crowley rolled the word over in his mind. Yes, it had a nice ring to it. Non-gender-specific, which was handy. And a bit of ambiguity that could be useful or amusing. He could imagine some clueless humans assuming they meant business partners[2], and then getting a shock when he proceeded to give the angel a good snogging. "Hmm. Partners. I like it." He gave a sly smile. "Of course, 'my partner' is still a bit formal. I think I've thought of something else I might call you. If I wanted to be a bit warmer, that is."

"Oh yes? And what's that?"

He took Aziraphale's hand. "My world."

The angel turned a very pretty shade of pink and gave the demon a long, soft kiss. "Likewise, my dear," he murmured. "Likewise."

[1] When they returned to the bookshop several hours later, the angel would be pleased - but perhaps not entirely surprised - to find that the kitchenette had expanded by 100 square feet and acquired a 5-burner range with induction cooktop and convection oven, a full-sized refrigerator, and a slate tile floor.

[2] Which they _also_ now were, technically, even if the demon still didn't look like he helped run a bookshop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the ride...and find the substitute for wedding bells satisfactory! 
> 
> I would not wish to deny the importance of the social recognition and protections that come with marriage, particularly for those who have long been denied the option. After all, part of the reason my husband and I decided to get married was to reduce the chance that he might get deported! It was nice to have a party with our friends and family, but it didn't actually change our relationship.  
> In a world without such concerns, the daily decision to stay together when there is no legal barrier or social stigma to walking away would, I think, be more romantic than a one-time declaration; You would keep coming home to each other purely because you wanted to. And that, I think, is the ineffable husbands - er, ineffable partners - in a nutshell. 
> 
> The dessert is inspired by Nanny Ogg's Chocolate Delight with special secret sauce from her book 'The Joye of Snacks' (see "Maskerade").
> 
> The title comes from a Willie Nile song that I can't help thinking would make for a great GO fan video:
> 
> They say that pleasure is the right of kings  
> Fruit cakes, Cadillacs, and diamond rings  
> A dozen oysters and a bird that sings.  
> But for some of us that stuff just won't do  
> We want more, we want a love that's true  
> And I had a heart-attack when I saw you.
> 
> Born and raised up in a world of men  
> Lived on the back streets since I don't know when  
> Been knocked down, got back up again.  
> Cause I've got everything when I've got you  
> The Irish sweepstakes, the lottery too  
> An invitation to a rendezvous.
> 
> I want the mountains, I want the trees  
> I want the ocean, I want the breeze  
> I want the ceiling, I want the floor  
> I want the lock on heaven's door!
> 
> They say that love is just a rich man's game  
> You got the money, you get to light the flame  
> You believe that, you got yourself to blame.
> 
> Chorus: I want the whole world with you  
> Yeah, the whole thing, the half just won't do  
> Though our clothes may be wrinkled and worn  
> The coats on our backs hanging tattered and torn  
> Well, I want the whole world with you
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PQ1UFjxBpxY


End file.
